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m mms 


ICMMMMOM 

Bi/  MURRAY 
LEINSTER 


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A THRILLING  PUBLICATION 


Vot  19,  No.  1 


March,  1949 


A Complete  Novel 

THE  BLACK  GALAXY 

By  HURRAY  LEINSTER 

Barred  from  space,  Rod  Cantrell  suddenly  gets  an 
unlooked-for  opportunity  to  fight  the  marauders 
who  threaten  the  existence  of  all  cosmic  life!  13 

Two  Complete  Novelets 
THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES Robert  Moore  Williams  74 

“By  the  sweat  of  your  brow  shall  ye  earn  your  daily  bread — " is  still  true  on 
the  hard-working  Earth — but  what  of  the  fiery  planet  of  Mars? 

THE  LOOT  OF  TIME Clifford  D.  Simak  88 

Marooned  in  the  past,  a party  of  travelers  send  an  SOS  ringing  far  into 
the  future!  A Hall  of  Fame  classic  reprinted  by  popular  demand 

Short  Stories 

THE  MAGNIFICENT  FAILURE Rene  LaFayette  104 

History  calls  Jonathan  Bates  the  Father  of  Exploration,  but — 

THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS Jack  Vance  115 

Magnus  Ridolph  found  the  ticholama  plantation  an  amazing  bargain 

MARIONETTES,  INC Ray  Bradbury  125 

Braling  and  Smith  sought  vacations  from  their  wives,  and  almost  succeeded 

TURNOVER  TIME Noel  Loomis  129 

Fated  to  miss  the  moon,  a rocket-ship’s  doomed  to  be  lost  in  space 

Eeatures 

THE  ETHER  VIBRATES  (Announcements  and  Letters) The  Editor  6 

THE  ROAD  TO  SPACE  TRAVEL  (Part  I)  .7 . Willy  Ley  68 

SCIENCE  FICTION  FAN  PUBLICATIONS A Review  156 

SCIENCE  FICTION  BOOKSHELF J A Department  161 

Cover  Painting  by  Earle  Bergey — Illustrating  “The  Black  Galaxy” 


STARTMNG  STORIES.  Published  every  other  month  by  Better  Publications,  Inc..  N.  L.  Pines,  President,  at  4600  Divoreey 
Ave.,  Chicago  39.  III.  Editorial  and  executive  offices,  10  East  40th  St..  New  Tot*  16,  N.  Y.  Entered  as  second-class  matter 
November  22,  1940,  at  the  post  office  at  Chicago,  Illinois,  under  the  act  of  March  Z.  1079.  Copyright,  1.949.  by  Better 
Publications,  Inc.  Subscription  (12  issues).  $3.00;  single  copies.  $.25;  foreign  and  Canadian  postage  extra.  In  corre- 
sponding with  this  magazine  please  include  poetal  »one  number,  if  any.  Manuscripts  will  not  be  returned  unless 
accompanied  by  self-addressed,  stamped  envelopes  and  are  submitted  at  the  author's  risk.  Names  of  all  characters  used 
In  stories  and  semi-fiction  articles  are  fictitious.  If  the  name  of  any  living  person  or  existing  institution  is  used,  it 
is  a coincidence.  PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  8.  A. 


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APPROVED  FOR  TRAINING  UNDER  fill  BELL 


ONE  of  the  types  of  futureworld  cos- 
mos which  seems  to  pre-occupy  a 
great  number  of  those  who  read  or 
write  science  fiction  is  what  might  well  be 
called  an  aseptic  civilization.  It  is  a civiliza- 
tion completely  controlled  by  scientists  and 
dedicated  to  the  proposition  of  one  hundred^ 
percent  efficiency. 

Such  a development  is,  we  suppose,  a 
dream-world  for  garbage  men.  In  its  highly 
sterilized  purlieus  nothing  is  ever,  ever  put 
to  waste.  Humanity  is  evolved  via  the  micro- 
scope and  the  incubator.  Helicopters,  space- 
ships and  baby  carriages  run  upon  schedules 
more  immutable  than  the  stars  themselves. 
Agriculture  is  hydroponics  under  growth- 
lamps. 

Romance?  Well,  save  for  the  inevitable 
hero  and  heroine  (if  this  concept  be  in  story 
form)  the  inmates  of  this  cultural  vacuum 
seem  doomed  to  prefer  contemplation  of  some 
post-Pareto  curve  or  trans- galactic  peri- 
helion to  the  contemplation  of  their  con- 
temporary Ava  Gardners.  Sex — a wasteful 
process  since  its  biological  aspects  have  been 
eliminated — is  replaced  by  trisection. 

Dream — or  Nightmare? 

Aldous  Huxley,  of  course,  made  delight- 
ful mincemeat  of  many  aspects  of  this  con- 
cept years  ago  in  his  Brave  New  World.  But 
too  many  readers  and  writers  don’t  seem  to 
be  kidding  at  all  when  they  dream  of  ultra- 
efficiency. They  really  appear  to  believe  that 
such  a civilization  could  be  anything  but  a 
nightmare. 

The  ideal  of  a scientifically  perfect  world 
is,  per  se,  a noble  one.  Science  offers  an 
opportunity  for  limitless  creation  to  those 
frustrated  souls  who  lack  any  talent  or  apti- 
tude for  their  creative  impulses  in  the  arts. 
They  dream  of  tilting  a couple  of  test  tubes 
and  lifting  man  to  the  stars. 

But  they  forget  that  Albert  Einstein  also 


plays  the  violin — and  plays  it  well. 

They  forget  that  Mussolini  won  interna- 
tional fame  with  his  boast  that  he  had  “made 
the  trains  run  on  time  in  Italy”  while  here 
in  America,  without  any  Fascist  or  pseudo- 
efficient trimmings,  trains  have  been  run- 
ning far  closer  to  schedule  for  generations. 

They  forget  the  fact  that  to  apply  any 
theory  to  humanity  takes  limitless  wisdom 
and  patience. 

They  forget  that  what  is  ideal  to  one  man 
is  anathema  by  instinct,  nature  and  intellec- 
tual preferment  to  tens  of  others. 

Humans  Are  Fallible 

Being  idealists,  when  they  are  confronted 
by  what  to  them  seems  stupid  or  intran- 
sigent opposition,  they  tend  to  regard  their 
opponents  as  enemies  of  humanity  and,  in 
extreme  cases,  are  capable  of  plotting  to  treat 
them  as  such.  They  forget,  in  the  grandeur 
of  their  dreams,  that  they  too  are  human — 
therefore  fallible.  They  make,  or  would  if 
they  could  control  things,  the  classic  mistake 
of  Robespierre,  that  most  reasonable  and  in- 
corruptible of  men,  whose  idealistic  efforts  to 
force  his  dream  down  the  throats  of  his  coun- 
trymen wrought  a reign  of  terror  that  is 
remembered  with  horror  to  this  day. 

They  say,  “If  human  beings  would  only 
breed  themselves  as  sensibly  as  they  breed 
horses  or  dogs,  this  would  be  a better  world.” 

But  they  fail  to  offer,  because  they  have 
none,  any  proof  that  Citation  or  Man  Of  War 
is  or  was  any  faster  than  some  stalwart  wild 
horse  of  the  steppes  engaged  in  a dash  for 
prey  or  life.  And  they  forget  that  it  was 
men  who  bred  the  ridiculously  lion-hearted 
and  futile  Pekinese. 

They  mourn  the  fact  that  our  so-called 
“upper-level”  (whatever  that  means)  fam- 
ilies produce  not  enough  children  to  main- 
tain themselves  while  the  less  favored  ele- 
ments of  the  population  breed  cheerfully  and 
(Continued  on  page  8) 


Over 850,000  people 

Agues fucf/ed mus/c  f/r/s  easyway 


SEE  HOW  SIMPLE  IT  IS! 

"My  country  'tis  of  thee.  Sweet  land  of  liberty* 


The  first  note  on  the  music  Above  is 
"'a"  Follow  the  dotted  line  to  the  key- 
board and  locate  “c"  on  the  piano.  Find 
the  other  notes  the  same  way.  As  you 
Strike  them  you'll  be  playing  the  melody 


of  "America.”  Easy,  isn't  itf  And  it'8 
easy  to  play  other  tunes,  too.  For  a re- 
markable invention,  the  "Note-Finder,” 
tells  you  just  where  each  note  is  located 
on  the  piano  keyboard. 


You,  too,  can  learn  to  play  your  favorite 
instrument,  quickly,  easily,  right  in  your  own  home! 


YES,  OVER  860,000  delighted  people  have  studied 
music  this  quick,  easy,  inexpensive  way.  Some  are  now 
on  the  stage,  others  on  the  radio,  and  thousands  more 
are  enjoying  the  new  pleasure  and  popularity  of  being 
able  to  play.  Isn't  this  convincing  proof  of  the  success  of 
the  new  U.  S.  School  of  Music  method?  Many  students 
didn’t  know  one  note  from  another.  Yet  in  a short  time 
they  learned  to  play  their  favorite  instrument.  And  they 
found  learning  this  modern  way  amazingly  easy  and 
loads  of  fun.  What  countless  others  have  done,  YOU, 
too,  can  dol 

Right  from  the  start  you  learn  real  tunes  by  note. 
First  you  are  told  how  to  do  a thing.  Then  a picture 
shows  you  how  to  do  it.  Finally  you  do  it  yourself  and 
hear  how  it  goes.  Almost  before  you  realize  it,  you  are 
playing  your  favorite  pieces.  No  private  teacher  could 
make  it  clearer. 


LAWRENCE  WELK 

famous  band  leader 

Lawrence  Welk’s  achievements  should 
be  an  inspiration  to  all  students  of 
music.  His  rise  to  fame  was  rapid, 
lie  has  played  for  leading 
theatres,  hotels,  and  radio 
networks.  And  he  did  it  all 
without  a professional  music 
teacher.  Here’s  what  he  says: 
*‘I  studied  the  ac- 
cordion with  the 
U.  S.  School  and 
was  surprised  at 
how  simple  their 
method  made  learn- 
ing music.  I can 
highly  recommend 
this  school  to  any- 
one interested  in 
learning  musio 
quiokly  without  a 
private  teacher,  at 
Such  a low  cost,” 


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Please  send  mo  Free  Booklet  and  Print  and  Picture 
Sample.  I would  like  to  play  instrument  checked  below. 
(Do  you  have  instrument ) 


Plano 

Accordion 

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Mr.  1 
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Miss  ) 

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THE  ETHEL  VIBRATES 

(Continued  from  page  6) 

in  quantity,  come  war,  famine  or  revolution. 
They  forget  that,  thanks  to  Mendel’s  Law 
(recently  repealed  as  anti-Marxist  by  the 
Soviet  government)  and  inevitable  changes 
of  circumstances,  it  is  virtually  impossible  to 
breed  any  strain,  good  or  bad,  out  of  the 
race. 


The  Palomino 

As  proof  of  this  we  need  only  cite  the  re- 
cent resurrection  of  the  Palomino — the  long- 
lost  “golden”  horse  of  the  Spanish  Conquis- 
tadores.  Apparently  vanished  beyond  trace 
for  centuries,  it  has  been  brought  back  to  full 
flower  within  a finger-count  of  equine  gen- 
erations. 

Actually,  no  matter  how  progressive  it  may 
appear,  the  restriction  in  any  non-criminal 
way  of  the  individual  is  a savage  atavism — 
even  in  the  name  of  efficiency.  Furthermore, 
and  ultimately — the  human  critter  being 
what  he  is — it  won’t  work.  There  are  far 
too  many  artists,  rebels  and  lovers  of  change 
for  its  own  sake  among  us  to  permit  society 
to  remain  long  in  even  the  most  idealistic 
social  stasis — for  which  we  face  Mecca  and 
knock  our  forehead  on  the  floor  to  Allah 
three  times. 

We  believe  in  the  scientific  Utopia.  It  is 
within  our  grasp  if  we  have  the  courage  and 
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individual  freedom,  even  when  such  indi- 
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good  of  the  whole. 

It’s  tough — sure — and  we  stand  perilously 
close  to  missing  out  on  our  great  opportunity 
at  present.  But  if  Utopia  is  to  be  enjoyed 
by  a race  of  sheep  in  human  form,  it  will 
hardly  be  worth  dreaming  about.  It  won’t  be 
much  fun. 

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The  truly  great  men  of  science — the  Ein- 
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second.  While  aware  of  the  infinity  they 
(Continued  on  page  10) 


8 


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THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 


(Continued  from  page  8) 

could  almost  reach  out  and  touch,  they  all 
knew  or  know  that  infinity — even  an  in- 
finity of  riches — is  fatal  unless  it  has  been 
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(Continued  on  page  138) 


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NEW  TEN-BLADE  PACKAGE  HAS  COMPARTMENT  FOR  USED  BLADES 


the 

BLACK  galaxy 


Baned  from  space.  Rod  Cantrell  gets 
an  unlooked-for  chance  to  fight 
galactic  marauders  who 
threaten  life! 


One  of  the  painters 
played  the  mouth 
organ  and  there  was 
a three-dimensional 
dance  (CHAP.  VII) 


CHAPTER  I 
Grounded! 

THE  Chairman  of  the  Space  Project 
Committee  was  very  polite.  But  he 
was  a politician  and  Rod  Cantrell  had 
been  a soldier  and  was  a very  famous  man 
and  all  politicians  know  that  soldiers  and 


other  practical  men  can  be  most  obstinate 
when  politics  shows  clearly  what  should  be 
done. 

"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you,”  the 
Chairman  said  blandly  “on  your  promotion.” 
“On  being  kicked  upstairs?”  asked  Rod 
drily.  “I’m  not  pleased.  It  looks  to  me — 
since  that’s  what  I came  to  protest  about — 
that  I’m  promoted  to  something  like  a dum- 
13 


A Group  of  Earthlings  Plays  Bi-Universal  Hide 


my  job  so  that  the  work  I want  to  do  and 
the  decisions  I need  to  make  will  be  made 
by  people  who  think  more  of  elections  than 
of  really  important  things.” 

The  Chairman  of  the  Space  Committee 
laughed  appreciatively.  But  he  made  a men- 
tal black  mark.  This  man  would  not  be 
amenable  to  political  pressure.  Perhaps  he 
had  better  be  a little  more  thoroughly  de- 
prived of  authority — and  given  more  prestige 
to  make  up  for  it. 

“Oh,  come,  come!”  he  said  indulgently. 
“What  have  you  to  complain  of?  The  ship 
you’re  building  has  certainly  all  the  funds 
anyone  could  need!” 

“I  think,”  Rod  said  flatly,”  that  we  should 
postpone  any  attempt  at  interplanetary  travel 
until  we  get  some  interplanetary  weapons.” 
As  the  Chairman  beamed  at  him  he  went  on 
doggedly. 

“I  designed  the  drive-units  for  the  ship 
now  building,  for  the  one  now  under 
construction.  I made  the  first  interplanetary 
flights — the  only  ones  made  to  date.  But  I 
urge  the  postponement  of  exploration  until 
we  have  some  defense.  The  weapons  we 
have  now  would  be  useless  against  an  enemy 
with  space-ships.” 

The  Chairman  beamed  on  and  offered  Rod 
a cigar.  Rod  curtly  refused  it. 

“Yet,”  mused  the  Chairman  amiably,”  you 
did  not  encounter  any  other  space-ships  in 
your  three  interplanetary  flights,  you  can- 
not name  possible  enemies  and  you  have  not 
any  real  evidence  that  this — ah — hypothetical 
enemy  you  speak  of  has  weapons  superior  to 
our  own.  After  all,  we  have  a gift  for  destruc- 
tion ourselves!  And  remember,  the  idea  of 
space-conquest  has  caught  the  imagination  of 
the  public!” 

ROD  set  his  jaws.  He  was  prepared  to 
be  made  ridiculous  if  he  could  bring 
about  some  measure  of  defense  against  the 
dangers  he  foresaw.  But  a politician  could 
not  be  expected  to  believe  anything  danger- 
ous if  it  brought  in  votes.  And  the  proven 
possibility  of  travel,  not  only  to  other  planets 
but  to  the  stars,  had  roused  enormous  popu- 
lar enthusiasm. 

“There  were  Martians,  once,”  said  Rod. 
“There  aren’t  any  more.  They  had  a civili- 
zation that  in  some  ways  was  higher  than 
ours.  You’ve  seen  the  proofs  of  that.  And 


% 

they  were  wiped  wit.  They  simply  vanished, 
leaving  their  cities  to  fall  in  ruins  behind 
them.” 

“You  assume  that  your — ah — hypothetical 
space-travellers  destroyed  them?” 

“I  do,”  said  Rod.  He  added  with  some 
irony,  “You  must  remember  that  I saw  the 
dead  Martian  cities  with  the  least  stray  pos- 
session left  in  place  and  what  I believe  were 
the  remains  of  the  Martians  lying  where  they 
dropped.  And  I saw  that  pyramid  on  Calyp- 
so, which  surely  no  men  made.  It  was  made 
by  the  race  I’m  talking  about,  which  I haven’t 
seen,  which  I can’t  name  or  describe,  but 
which  made  it  to  lure  the  first  man  to  see  it 
into  sending  them  a signal  that  space-travel 
had  been  achieved  on  Earth.” 

“Yet  you  did  not  even  photograph  it,” 
said  the  Chairman,  tolerantly.  “And  you  in- 
sist that  we  devote  research  and  money  to 
weapons — when  the  world  is  very  weary  of 
weapons  and  of  war — instead  of  upon  space- 
travel,  which  has  filled  humanity  with  opti- 
mism it  has  never  known  before ! My  dear  sir, 
it  would  be  political  suicide!” 

"The  point  is,”  said  Rod  bitterly,  “that  not 
to  do  it  may  be  physical  suicide!” 

“Now,  now.”  The  Chairman  beamed  cor- 
dially. “I  shall  confer  with  the  rest  of  the 
Committee.  You  have  just  had  a promotion 
and  perhaps  we  can  manage  another.  We 
are  fully  aware  of  your  services  in  the  past 
and  you  are  surely  the  only  interplanetary 
voyager,  so  you  cannot  be  contradicted.  But 
you  ask  the  making  of  a very  unpopular  de- 
cision ! Suppose  we  raise  you  another  step  in 
rank  ?” 

Rod  stood  up,  rather  pale. 

“I’m  not  trying  blackmail,!’  he  said  bitter- 
ly. “I’m  trying  to  drive  some  sense  into  your 
head ! There  are  more  important  things  than 
winning  elections,  and  staying  alive  is  one 
of  them!  I can  resign  my  commission  and 
speak  publicly  of  what  I fear.” 

The  Chairman’s  smile  remained,  though 
he  spoke  acidly. 

“I  am  afraid  the  popular  impression  would 
be  that  you  wish  to  prevent  further  space- 
voyages,  to  keep  the  credit  of  being  the  only 
man  who  had  ever  crossed  space.  I am  sure 
that — ah — other  officers  who  are  your  equals 
in  rank  would  look  at  it  that  way.  I shall 
discuss  the  matter  with  my  Committee.  Mean- 
while you  are,  of  course,  under  regulation 


and  §et‘k  With  the  Deadliest  Killers  Ever  Known! 


obligations  not  to  make  public  statements 
without  official  clearance.  We  will  see  about 
another  promotion  for  you.” 

He  bowed  Rod  out,  beaming  at  him  benev- 
olently. And  Rod  was  sick  with  apprehen- 
sion. He’d  wanted  to  have  the  first  real  space- 
ship capable  of  putting  up  a fight.  He  be- 


proof.  If  he  could  show  a group  of  scientists 
that  proof.  . . . But  as  it  turned  out  he  wasn’t 
to  be  allowed  to  do  anything  so  sensible. 

TWO  days  later  he  had  his  orders.  He 
had  a promotion.  And  all  real  authority 
was  taken  from  him.  He  was  again  kicked 


Itastsfe sa 


Rod  cut  into  the  strange  structure  with  a thermite  torch  (CHAP  I) 


lieved  it  might  need  to  fight.  But  anyhow 
he  was  still  in  command  erf  the  construction 
of  the  space-ship  now  building  and  he’d  com- 
mand it  when  it  took  off  from  Earth. 

Maybe  he  could  find  more  conclusive  proof 
of  the  peril  he  believed  in.  Most  likely,  in- 
deed, on  the  Moon.  The  central  peak  of 
Tycho  would  be  the  logical  place  to  look  for 


upstairs,  to  a desk,  and  he  was  transferred  to 
another  branch  of  the  service.  He  received 
the  warmest  possible  thanks  for  the  value  of 
his  contributions  to  the  project  from  which 
he  was  now  relieved.  He  went  sick  all  over. 
And  when  he  told  Kit  Bowen  about  it  he 
could  have  wept  with  impotent  fury.  She 
looked  at  him  indignantly. 


16  STARTLING  STORIES 


“It’s  not  fair!”  she  cried.  “You  designed 
the  ship,  Rod,  and  you’re  the  only  one  who 
will  really  know  how  to  run  it,  anyway,  and 
— and — ” 

Rod  tried  to  grin  at  her,  but  he  couldn’t.  It 
was  too  important.  Much  more  important 
than  his  own  feelings  in  the  matter. 

But  he  said  through  somehow  stiff  lips, 
“I’ll  show  my  successor  everything  I know. 
Kit.  And  I’ll  try  to  make  him  believe  in 
what  I’m  worried  about.” 

Kit  stamped  her  feet.  Then  she  turned 
away  to  keep  him  from  seeing  that  she  want- 
ed to  cry.  But  she  didn’t  really  understand 
the  gone  feeling  inside  of  Rod  at  that. 

They  stood  beside  the  hulk  of  the  Stellaris, 
which  was  just  two-thirds  completed.  The 
ship  was  a hundred-odd  feet  long  and  forty- 
some  through.  It  was  a space-ship — the  first 
vessel  ever  built  on  earth  to  navigate  the  re- 
gions between  the  stars.  Rod  Cantrell  had  de- 
signed it,  after  making  the  first  human  in- 
terplanetary flights  in  a modified  captured 
weapon  taken  from  the  rebels  in  the  war  of 
the  Total  State  against  the  Earth  Govern- 
ment.* 

He’d  seen  the  possibility  of  a space-drive 
in  a device  that  had  been  created  only  for 
mass  murder  and  the  drive  he’d  worked  out 
was  no  makeshift  calling  for  centuries  of 
development  before  men  could  aspire  to  the 
stars.  His  first  flight  in  the  toy-sized  al- 
tered weapon  took  him  to  the  Moon  with  ab- 
solute ease  and  safety. 

His  second  was  equally  safe  and  precise 
and  it  took  him  to  Mars.  He  brought  back 
photographs  and  artifacts  for  proof.  And  the 
third  flight,  aimed  at  a more  distant  objective 
to  check  the  physical  constants  governing  the 
space-drive,  had  reached  Calypso,  the  larg- 
est of  Jupiter’s  moons. 

That  makeshift  craft,  though,  could  only 
make  flights  as  stunts.  Tire  Stellaris  had  been 
begun  to  carry  an  adequate  crew  of  scientists 
for  the  study,  first  of  Sol’s  other  planets,  ulti- 
mately for  roaming  the  stars  so  that  human 
colonies  could  begin  to  spread  throughout  the 
Galaxy.  Rod  Cantrell  had  been  given  charge 
of  the  ship’s  construction,  and  he  had  been 
promised  her  command. 

But  now  he’d  been  handed  orders  from  the 
Space  Project  Commission  which  dashed  all 
his  hopes.  He  was  not  only  relieved  of  the 
duty  of  supervising  the  Stellaris’  construc- 
tion but  was  bluntly  informed  that  he  would 
not  even  be  a member  of  her  crew  when  she 


left  Earth — because  of  his  wild  tale  of  an 
inimical  race,  possessing  space-ships,  which 
would  threaten  the  peace  of  Earth. 

Kit  said,  gulping,  “It’s  not  fair,  Rod!  It's 
stupid!  It’s  unjust!  You  deserve — ” 

“That  doesn’t  matter,”  said  Rod.  “What 
does  matter  is  what  can  happen.  This  deci- 
sion is  on  account  of  my  report  on  that  pyra- 
mid on  Calypso.” 

“But  you  did  the  right  thing!”  insisted 
the  girl.  “There  wasn’t  anything  else  to  do!" 

“That  was  my  opinion,”  said  Rod,  “but 
the  Commission  doesn’t  agree.  I. think  they 
feel  that  I consider  myself  too  famous  and 
that  I’d  like  to  stop  space-travel  so  I’d  stay 
the  only  man  who  ever  achieved  it.” 

“Nonsense!”  scoffed  Kit. 

“They’ve  suspected  that  report  from  the 
beginning,”  Rod  added.  “They’ve  never 
allowed  any  reference  to  the  pyramid  to  be 
published.  They  said  it  would  cause  public 
alarm.  Of  course,  it  would  imperil  their  jobs. 

“Their  places  were  created  to  encourage 
space  exploration.  If  they  discourage  it, 
instead,  the  Commission  will  be  scrapped  and 
they’ll  have  no  salaries.  I hate  to  think  of 
so  great  a risk  being  run  just  so  some  political 
appointees  can  stay  on  salary.” 

KIT  BOWEN  made  a scornful  sound. 

She  wasn’t  exactly  engaged  to  Rod, 
because  engagements  were  no  longer  consid- 
ered matters  that  existed  formally  to  be  an- 
nounced. But  they  had  planned  to  marry. 
Rod  knew  now  that  it  had  become  doubtful. 
He  could  have  played  it  more  or  less  safe, 
and  guided  a scientific  expedition  in  the 
Stellaris  in  search  of  proof  of  what  he  knew. 

But  he’d  tried  it  the  right  way,  with  full 
reports  and  an  effort  to  throw  the  Commit- 
tee behind  research  for  defense.  As  a result, 
he  was  kicked  upstairs.  He’d  never  have  an- 
other chance.  And  to  be  a permanent  desk- 
officer — Kit  wouldn’t  care,  but  he  would. 

Riveters  pounded  on  the  Stellaris’  metal 
skin  like  monster  woodpeckers  hunting  giant 
grubs.  They  were  putting  on  the  flotation- 
bulges,  designed  to  make  her  float  merrily, 
even  if  she  landed  in  a sea  of  liquid  ammonia. 

The  air-lock  construction-doors  of  the  ship 
opened.  Electricians  came  out  and  headed 
for  the  commissary  for  lunch.  Two  girls, 
no  doubt  assistants  in  biology  working  on 
the  air-purifying  plant,  also  came  out  of  the 
lock,  chattering,  and  went  briskly  to  the 
same  place. 

The  air-system  for  the  ship  was  already 


•See  STARTLING  STORIES,  January.  194*. 


The  women  colonists  presented  Kit  with  • costume 
nude  of  some  of  the  looted  fabrics  (CHAP.  XIV) 


17 


STARTLING  STORIES 


18 

installed  and  was  being  tested  by  being  run 
to  purify  the  air  used  by  workmen  On  the 
inside  of  the  already-sealed  hull.  The  ship's 
corridors  were  still  bare  metal  though  and 
it  would  be  many  weeks  yet  before  the  living 
quarters  were  fitted  out,  the  computers  and 
astrogation  instruments  put  in,  even  the  first 
of  the  ship’s  stores  accumulated. 

But  the  field-generators  and  tractor  and 
pressor  beams  were  in  and  had  already  been 
tried  out.  The  ship  would  positively  go  any- 
where in  the  galaxy  that  her  crew  demanded, 
though  she  was  the  first  Earth-ship  ever 
built  for  space-travel.  Only  Rod  knew  that 
she  wasn’t  the  first  space-ship.  There  were 
others. 

The  thing  was  that  the  crews  of  the  other 
ships,  roaming  among  the  stars,  weren’t  hu- 
man crews  and  they  wouldn’t  welcome  human 
competition. 

He’d  learned  that  from  a silvery-metal 
pyramid,  some  thirty  feet  of  seamless  stuff 
on  every  side.  It  was  out  on  Calypso,  on 
the  very  peak  of  the  highest  and  most  singu- 
lar of  the  mountains  of  that  sub-satellite. 
It  had  not  been  built  on  Calypso  and  certain- 
ly men  hadn’t  made  it  but  the  creatures  who 
had  made  it  knew  that  men  existed. 

There  were  bas-reliefs  of  human  forms 
upon  its  brightly-gleaming  metal  sides  and 
there  were  two  human-size  metal  doors  that 
could  obviously  be  opened  by  simply  turn- 
ing the  handles  of  two  human-sized  locks. 
Its  location  was  one  that  would  certainly  be 
visited  by  any  human  explorer  of  Calypso, 
if  only  so  that  he  could  leave  a record  of  his 
visit  there  for  later  voyagers  to  find.  And 
that  so-human  pyramid,  suggesting  earlier 
visitors  still,  would  almost  irresistably  im- 
pel the  first  man  to  reach  Calypso  to  turn  the 
door-handles  and  go  in. 

But  Rod  Cantrell  hadn’t  done  that.  Per- 
haps because  of  war  experience,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  didn’t  like  the  artwork.  He  cut  into 
the  structure  with  a thermite  torch,  leaving 
the  doors  alone.  He  found  it  packed  with 
machinery  which  surely  wasn’t  of  human  de- 
sign, and  he  struggled  to  understand  it. 

In  the  end  he  found  a power-storage  unit 
that  was  far  and  away  beyond  anything  of 
human  manufacture.  He  cut  the  power-leads 
and  traced  connections.  And  then  he  caused 
the  doors  to  open.  In  opening  they  swung 
contacts  and  controls  and  he  saw  that  they’d 
have  sent  the  power — some  hundreds  of  mil- 
lions of  kilowatts — in  a mighty  surge  of 
energy  through  a device  he  didn’t  begin  to 


understand  but  which  was  obviously  some 
sort  of  radiation-generator. 

And  instantly  thereafter  the  whole  pyramid 
and  its  machines  began  to  smoke  and  were 
glowing  faintly  by  the  time  he  got  out  of  it. 
It  melted  itself  and  dissolved  in  a pool  of 
melted  metal — which  exploded  when  the  cut- 
off power-unit  blew.  So  that  he  had  nothing 
but  a verbal  description  to  offer  with  his  re- 
port— and  he  wasn’t  quite  believed. 


CHAPTER  II 
Take-Off 


OW  he  stood  beside  the  incomplete  hulk 
of  the  Stellaris  with  the  orders  that 
ended  his  career  in  his  hand. 

“It  still  seems  to  me  that  I did  the  right 
thing,”  Rod  said  bitterly.  “I  guessed  it  as  a 
sort  of  booby-trap.  It  was  a gadget  to  signal 
somebody,  somewhere,  when  men  climbed  up 
to  the  point  of  achieving  space-travel!  And 
who’d  want  to  be  warned  when  we  reached 
that  stage?  Not  friends  certainly!  If  they’d 
been  friendly  they’d  have  helped!” 

“Of  course  they  would!”  said  Kit  with 
conviction. 

“I  kept  that  signal  from  being  sent,”  said 
Rod.  “If  I'd  kept  my  mouth  shut  I’d  have 
commanded  the  Stellaris  and  we’d  have  found 
another  one — there’s  probably  another  on  the 
central  peak  in  Tycho’s  crater  on  the  Moon — 
and  I could  have  made  the  Commission  see  it. 

“But  I had  to  tell  about  it,  believing  my 
word  would  be  taken.  So  now  somebody  else 
will  take  the  Stellaris  out  and  it’ll  be  pretty 
odd  if  the  signal  doesn’t  get  sent  off  when 
he  finds  another  pyramid.  And  then  what’ll 
happen?  What  would  we  do  if  we’d  been 
traveling  among  the  stars  for  ages  and  found 
a new,  upstart  race  getting  ready  to  compete 
with  us?  And  a rather  pugnacious  race,  at 
that?  We’d  smack  them  down  and  fast!” 
Kit  said,  agreeing  fully,  “If  we  found  them 
before  they’d  reached  that  point  we’d  try  to 
make  friends  with  them.” 

“Whoever  built  the  pyramid  found  us,” 
said  Rod,  drearily.  “Maybe  a few  thousand 
years  ago.  Maybe  at  the  time  they  knocked 
off  the  Martians.  They  didn’t  bother  ex- 
terminating us  then.  We  weren’t  worth  the 
trouble,  though  the  Martians  were.” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY  19 


“Anyhow  I’ve  got  my  orders.  Somebody  11 
come  to  take  over  from  me  within  hours. 
I’m  going  to  take  a last  look  over  the  ship 
and  then  clear  my  desk  and  get  ready  to 
leave.  Want  to  come  with  me?” 

Wordlessly  she  pressed  his  arm.  They 
went  together  to  the  air-lock.  Rod  Cantrell 
composed  his  face  so  that  nobody  could  guess 
his  inner  feelings.  The  lock-doors  opened 
and  they  entered. 

Immediately  there  was  the  oddly  pleasant 
smell  of  growing  things  which  came  from 
the  air-purifying  set-up.  It  was  partly  ex- 
perimental still,  but  it  demonstrably  worked. 
The  air  in  the  ship  had  been  kept  fresh  and 
breathable  for  more  than  six  weeks,  despite 
the  men  who  worked  inside  the  hull,  by  spe- 
cially-bred plant  life  kept  in  hydroponic 
tanks. 

There  were  chemical  purifiers  in  reserve  of 
course  but  normally  the  ship’s  air  would  be 
restored  to  normal  as  the  air  of  Earth  is  kept 
sweet — by  plants.  There  was  even  a section 
of  the  air-room  in  which  food-plants  were 
being  tried  out  for  the  same  purpose,  turn- 
ing out  foodstuffs  as  a byproduct  of  the  puri- 
fication of  the  ship’s  atmosphere. 

In  hydroponic  tanks,  vegetables  grew  with 
amazing  luxuriance.  The  Stellaris  would  not 
be  quite  self-sustaining  but  there  should  be 
at  least  occasional  meals  of  dewy-fresh  vege- 
tables even  when  the  ship  was  on  the  far 
side  of  Orion. 

Rod  Cantrell  and  Kit  stepped  into  the  un- 
finished interior  of  the  ship.  The  smells  of 
work  were  noticeable,  though  work  had 
stopped  for  the  lunch-hour.  Rod  looked  lone- 
somely  about.  In  all  probability  he  would 
never  set  foot  in  the  Stellaris  again. 

The  smell  of  vegetation  was  strong  and 
pleasant,  but  there  was  the  smell  of  paint 
too  and  the  curious  odor  of  heated  metal 
cooling  off — all  the  aromas  of  uncompleted 
construction.  In  a room  designed  for  stor- 
age four  painters  ate  their  lunch  compan- 
ionably  from  lunch-boxes,  rather  than  bother 
to  leave  the  ship.  An  electrician  smoked  rest- 
fully  beside  his  tools. 

They  went  into  the  engine-room,  in 
which  there  would  be  no  single  massively- 
moving  part.  A tiny  isotopic  generator  made 
its  humming  noise.  It  was  built  around  a 
block  of  artificially  radioactive  material  which 
gave  off  electrons  alone,  with  no  neutrons  or 
mesons  or  gamma  rays.  It  yielded  utterly 
safe  power  and  when  its  total  output  was  not 
needed  for  the  ship’s  purposes,  the  excess 


free  electrons  were  absorbed  in  another  arti- 
ficial isotope,  which,  in  absorbing  them,  be- 
come converted  into  the  parent  substance,* 
A fuel-supply  for  years  of  operation  thus 
had  necessarily  been  built  into  the  ship 
when  it  was  made. 

THE  field-generators,  too,  were  all  com- 
plete. They  had  been  tested  with  the 
Stellaris  safely  anchored  at  bow  and  stern 
with  tractor-beams.  Rod  regarded  the  gen- 
erators hungrily.  He’d  designed  them  and 
they  had  features  of  which  he  was  very  proud. 
But  now  he’d  never  be  able  to  see  for  him- 
self how  his  designs  stood  up  under  service 
conditions. 

“You  know  how  the  force-fields  work,” 
he  said  almost  wistfully  to  Kit.  “In  theory 
there  are  an  indefinite  number  of  dimensions, 
therefore  an  indefinite  number  of — I suppose 
you’d  call  them  universes — in  parallel.  Our 
universe  hangs  together  because  all  its  parts 
attract  each  other  magnetically  and  there  are 
gravitational  linkages  all  through  space. 

“There’s  an  incredibly  complex  network 
of  electrostatic  stresses  by  which  even  island 
universes  attract  each  other.  So  our  universe 
is  stable.  But  if  all  the  forces  that  link  an 
object  to  our  cosmos — the  things  that  tie  it 
in — are  cut  it  falls  out  of  the  universe  we 
know. 

“It  goes  apparently  into  a dark  universe, 
where  there  seem  to  be  no  stars.  Maybe  it’s 
a dead  universe  where  the  process  of  entropy 
is  complete,  where  all  the  energy  of  the  sys- 
tem has  run  down.  But  we  don’t  know  yet." 

Kit  nodded  wisely.  In  the  late  rebellion 
of  the  Total  State  the  city  of  Pittsburgh  had 
vanished  between  two  heart-beats  with  some 
millions  of  human  beings.  Washington  had 
been  slated  to  go  next  and  Rod  Cantrell  had 
been  duped — or  so  it  was  thought  by  the  war 
lords  of  the  Total  State — into  operating  the 
weapon  which  would  destroy  it. 

But  he’d  understood  their  weapon  a little 
too  well  and  it  had  been  turned  terribly 
against  them  by  his  understanding.  Now  the 
Earth  Government  ruled  undisputed  again 
— and  the  Earth  Government  had  taken  from 
Rod  his  chance  to  go  with  the  Stellaris  to 
the  void  between  the  stars.  Because  he’d 
made  a report  that  nobody  wanted  to  be- 
lieve. . . . 


(•Note:  An  isotope  giving;  off  electrons  only  in  its  decay 
was  known  as  early  as  1947  and  even  at  that  date  “bat- 
teries" were  made  from  it  which  yielded  from  100,000  to 
400,000  volts.  So  early,  however,  it  was  only  recovered  as 
a small  fraction  of  the  by-products  of  atomic  piles.  M.L.) 


STARTLING  STORIES 


20 

“These  generators,”  said  Rod  wistfully, 
“make  a field  close  about  the  Stellaris  which 
cuts  every  natural  link  between  the  ship  and 
the  million-billion  suns  of  our  universe.  Elec- 
trostatic stresses  can’t  go  through  that  field. 
Gravitation  doesn’t  penetrate.  Magnetic 
lines  of  force  are  stopped.  So  the  ship  leaves 
our  universe.  As  Pittsburgh  did.  Only — we 
leave  one  link  of  our  own  making. 

"We  leave  a tractor-beam  in  existence, 
pulling  the  ship  toward  one  spot.  A tractor- 
beam  can  penetrate  the  field  that  cuts  off 
everything  else.  And  the  ship  is  drawn  to  the 
one  spot  the  tractor-beam  is  focussed  on, 
although  it  moves  in  a parallel  universe  and 
isn’t  in  our  cosmos  at  all.  When  it  stops  at 
the  object  the  beam  is  pulling  we  cut  off  the 
force-fields  and  apparently  fall  back  into  our 
own  space.  But  we’ve  traveled  1” 

Kit  nodded  again.  She  knew  all  this  of 
course  but  Rod  was  heartbroken  and  it  helped 
him  to  talk. 

“And,”  he  said  wistfully  as  he  led  the 
way  out  of  the  engine-room,  “a  pressor-beam 
works  the  same  way.  We  can  push  away 
from  a place  we  want  to  start  from,  instead 
of  waiting  for  a tractor  to  reach  out  a few 
light-years  to  our  destination.” 

He  sounded  almost  enthusiastic  as  he  went 
along  the  straight-line  corridor  between  the 
engine-room  and  the  control-cabin — as  yet 
practically  empty  of  controls. 

“My  trip  to  Calypso  proved,”  he  added, 
“that  the  mass-inertia  ratio  in  the  dark  uni- 
verse I actually  traveled  in,  isn’t  the  same 
as  in  our  universe.  The  speed  of  light  is 
higher — much  higher.  The  time  I took  to 
get  to  Mars  suggested  it  and  the  trip  to  Ca- 
lypso proved  that  the  constants  of  the  two 
spaces  are  different.  I reached  Calypso 
through  the  dark  universe  faster  than  light 
could  make  the  trip  through  ours!” 

Then  he  stopped.  He’d  reached  the  con- 
trol-room from  which  he’d  expected  to  direct 
the  Stellaris.  There  was  the  big  instrument- 
board  with  practically  none  of  the  intended 
instruments  set  into  place.  The  switches  that 
had  been  installed  were  taped  to  the  “off” 
position,  to  avoid  accident.  They’d  been  used 
just  once,  when  the  force-field  generators 
were  tried  out  and  the  ship — kept  from  tra- 
veling by  anchoring  tractor-beams  holding 
her  fast — had  gone  into  the  dark  universe 
for  minutes. 

“But,”  said  Rod,  after  an  instant,  "that’s 
that!” 

He  stood  grimly  in  the  ship  he  was  now 


forbidden  to  command. 

Then,  just  as  he  turned  to  lead  Kit  out- 
side again,  there  came  a sudden  sharp  crack- 
ling sound  from  somewhere  in  the  ship.  It 
had  the  violent  harsh  timbre  of  an  electric  arc. 
Somebody  shouted  frantically.  By  sheer  in- 
stinct Rod  Cantrell  plunged  toward  the  scene 
of  emergency. 

BUT  he  didn’t  get  there.  Suddenly  he 
seemed  to  be  falling  endlessly,  hor- 
ribly, nightmarishly,  with  no  weight  and  no 
grip  on  anything.  There  were  vision-ports 
in  the  control-room,  intended  to  permit  a 
view  of  a landscape  or  of  the  stars.  As  the 
crackling  roar  grew  thunderous  those  vision- 
ports  turned  red,  then  orange,  then  flashed 
through  the  spectrum  to  violet  and  beyond. 

The  vision-ports  became  filled  with  utter 
blackness  and  on  the  instant  the  control- 
roan  was  as  dark  as  any  cave  on  Earth  and 
Rod  and  Kit  seemed  to  be  hurtling  blindly 
through  sheer  opacity.  Kit  uttered  a stran- 
gled cry.  She  had  left  the  floor  when  weight 
vanished.  She  had  the  hysterical  sensation 
of  an  increasing,  breathtaking  dive. 

There  were  screamings  somewhere.  There 
was  a strange  metallic  smell  of  vaporized 
cable.  There  was  the  pungent  reek  of  ozone. 
The  roaring  seemed  to  grow  yet  louder  and 
the  panic-stricken  cries  grew  with  it.  There 
came  the  stench  of  burned  insulation  and 
then  of  sooty  smoke. 

Kit  cried  out  again,  “Rod!” 

He  said  in  a coldly  savage  voice.  “Steady ! 
You’re  not  falling.  The  fields  went  on  from 
a short-circuit  somewhere  in  the  ship.  Now 
the  ship’s  on  fire  and  we’re  in  the  dark  uni- 
verse— traveling.  Steady!” 

A little  flicker  of  light — flame — appeared 
in  the  corridor  leading  to  the  engine-room. 
There  was  enough  light  to  show  Rod,  float- 
ing helplessly  in  the  air,  inches  only  from  a 
featureless  metal  wall.  Kit  drifted  yards 
from  any  solidity,  her  eyes  wide  and  filled 
with  fear. 

But  the  light  helped.  Rod  twisted  himself 
and  kicked.  He  went  tumbling — head-over- 
heels away  from  the  wall — to  the  floor,  where 
he  grasped  the  edge  of  the  incomplete  con- 
trol-panel. He  swung  himself  about.  The 
light  flickered  again,  and  he  leaped,  diving 
through  weightlessness  for  the  corridor. 

He  went  soaring  into  it  and  a mushroom- 
ing mass  of  yellow  incandescence  licked  out 
of  it.  Kit  screamed.  But  the  flame  died  away 
a little  as  he  plunged  into  it,  flared  out  again 


21 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


only  when  he  was  almost  through,  so  that  it 
barely  singed  him.  He  went  plunging  on 
into  the  engine-room. 

Unable  to  stop,  he  floated  until  his  out- 
stretched arms  cushioned  his  impact  against 
the  far  wall.  He  swung  about  again  and 
soared  a second  time — this  time  for  the 
humming  small  isotopic  generator  which 
supplied  the  electric  current  for  all  the  ship. 

He  reached  it.  He' held  fast — it  was  extra- 
ordinarily hard  to  hold  fast  with  no  weight 
to  help — and  savagely  cranked  off  the  man- 
ual switch  which  had  kept  the  unit  inert 
during  shipment.  The  roaring  of  the  arc  died 
instantly.  There  was  only  an  ominous  boom- 
ing noise  as  paint  and  insulation  and  con- 
struction-stores heated  by  the  arc  continued 
to  burn.  But  even  that  tended  to  die  down 
without  the  arc  to  keep  the  flame  supplied 
with  vaporized  fuel. 

Then  Rod  looked  at  the  ports  in  the  wall 
of  the  engine-room,  and  cold  sweat  came 
out  all  over  him.  The  ship  was  incomplete. 
It  was  unequipped.  It  had  no  stores  at  all. 
But  it  had  taken  off  from  earth.  There  were 
stars  in  view  out  the  vision-ports,  now  that 
the  force-field  had  cut  off  and  the  ship  was 
back  in  normal  space.  But  it  wasn’t  on 
Earth.  It  wasn’t  on  any  planet. 

And  there  wasn’t  any  sunlight  shining  in 
any  of  the  ports.  There  weren’t — this  made 
Rod’s  throat  go  dry  when  he  threw  himself 
across  the  dark  vacancy  of  the  engine-room 
to  one  port  after  another  and  stared  out — 
there  weren’t  even  any  familiar  constella- 
tions. The  Stellaris  had  had  a speed  and 
kinetic  energy  of  its  own  by  virtue  of  the 
shared  motion  of  the  Earth  on  its  axis  and 
around  the  sun,  and  the  other  motion  of  the 
solar  system  as  a whole. 

It  had  gone  into  the  dark  universe  where 
the  constants  of  mass  and  inertia  were  strange 
and  still  unexplored.  There  was  not  even 
a bright  yellow  star  anywhere  in  the  heav- 
ens which  might  be  Earth’s  sun  at  a greater 
distance  than  usual.  The  Stellaris  was  some- 
where among  the  stars.  Earth  and  its  sun 
could  be  anywhere,  in  any  direction,  at  al- 
most any  distance  up  to  light-millennia  away. 
There  was  no  possible  way  to  tell.  Even 
worse — 


The  ship,  in  fact,  was  a derelict.  It  had 
been  designed  to  be  driven  by  the  reaction 
of  its  tractor  and  pressor  beams  upon  solid 
bodies  outside  of  itself.  Now,  apparently, 
the  nearest  solid  objects  were  the  stars.  It 
would  take  years  for  the  beams  to  reach  the 


Rod  had  ooe  glimpse  of  the  pyramidal 
shape  as  he  fhtng  the  force-field  switches 
home  (CHAP.  III! 


STARTLING  STORIES 


22 

nearest  and  there  was  no  instrument  on 
board  by  which  the  nearest  might  even  be 
chosen.  There  were  no  stores  of  food,  no 
star-maps,  no  trained  crew — there  was  no 
faintest  reasonable  ground  for  hope  nor  rea- 
son for  any  effort. 

But  Kit  was  on  board.  So  when  the  flames 
died  down  and  only  a penetrating,  noise- 
some  reek  of  burned  paint  filled  the  air,  Rod 
Cantrell  turned  on  the  isotopic  dynamo  once 
more  and  switched  on  lights  throughout  the 
ship. 

Painfully  he  began  the  process  of  searching 
the  unfinished  hulk  for  unwilling  members 
of  its  company,  to  calm  them  and  sooth  them 
and  threaten  them  in  preparation  for  labors 
he  had  yet  to  imagine,  for  purposes  he  had 
yet  to  devise,  toward  ends  he  could  not  even 
conceive  of.  Oddly  enough,  he  did  not  even 
think  of  the  alien  race  that  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  uneasiness  back  on  Earth.  But 
here  among  the  stars  was  where  the  great- 
est danger  lay. 


CHAPTER  III 
Contact 


THAT  danger  manifested  itself  within 
hours.  The  short-circuit  had  been  re- 
paired— a painter  had  shifted  some  welding- 
rods  to  make  room  for  a comfortable  nap 
during  his  lunch-hour,  and  so  had  made  a 
contact  between  two  exposed  wires  from 
which  take-off  leads  were  to  have  led  cur- 
rent elsewhere. 

Lights  again  burned  throughout  the  ship 
and  Rod  had  turned  on  all  pressor-beams  in 
the  rather  desperate  hope  that  somewhere 
within  their  range  there  might  be  some  solid 
substance  to  give  the  ship  navigability.  Ac- 
tually the  most  he  hoped  for  was  something 
to  drive  toward  or  from  so  that  there  could 
be  acceleration  and  the  feel  of  gravity  to 
hearten  the  bewildered  and  frightened  people 
who  were  the  Stellaris’  unwilling  crew. 

They  were  turned  on  and  almost  immedi- 
ately he  thought  he  felt  a slight  stirring  of 
the  ship.  It  was  too  slight  to  be  sure.  When 
he  held  a coin  at  arm's  length  and  let  it  go, 
it  stayed  there  in  mid-air.  If  anything 
had  been  touched  by  the  beams  it  had  been 
lost — had  slipped  out  of  them.  The  night- 
marish feeling  of  perpetual  falling  contin- 


ued. Reason  did  no  good.  The  sensation 
was  nerve-racking. 

Then,  suddenly,  a flash  of  unbearable  light 
poured  in  through  the  vision-ports.  It  lasted 
no  longer  than  a flash-bulb’s  flare,  and  was 
gone  again.  But  Rod  dived  for  a port  and 
stared  out.  Instantly  he  blinked,  blinded.  As 
he  reached  the  glass  window  opening  upon 
all  of  space  a second  flash  came. 

It  was  blindingly  bright — but  it  came  from 
a tiny  spot,  an  infinitesimal  spot,  no  larger 
than  a star-image.  A pause,  then  a third 
flash  came.  It  would  make  the  ship’s  hull 
glow  as  if  incandescent.  And  the  third  flash 
was  not  from  the  same  place  as  the  second. 

Rod  was  dazed  for  an  instant.  He  had  a 
flash  of  hope.  Then  he  knew  better.  He’d 
had  the  pressor-beams  turned  on  at  random. 
They’d  touched  something  which  had  sped 
on  out  of  the  pressor-beam  field.  Now  that 
something  flashed  a search-beam.  And  there 
was  but  one  possible  source  for  brief  un- 
thinkably-bright  flashes  of  light  which  would 
last  only  for  thousandths  of  a second. 

Only  in  space  would  a light-beam  have 
certain  advantages  over  radar.  On  Earth 
radar  penetrates  clouds  and  mist.  In  space 
there  are  no  hindrances  to  vision.  If  there 
were  a space-ship  somewhere  off  there  in  the 
void  and  if  it  had  detected  the  Stellaris’  pres- 
sor-beams and  dived  out  of  them,  it  might 
use  radar  to  locate  the  Earth-ship. 

It  would  learn  more  from  a single  flash 
of  visual  light,  yielding  a photograph,  than 
any  scanning-beam  could  report  in  hours. 
The  fact  was  wisdom  after  the  event  but  it 
told  Rod  instantly  that  there  was  a space- 
ship yonder.  And  no  space-ship  could  be 
friendly. 

He  went  into  frenzied  activity.  He  dived 
back  to  the  engine-room  and  swung  the  pres- 
sor-beams in  tense  and  urgent  quest.  Spread- 
ing them  wider  at  first  he  searched  for 
something  for  them  to  react  against.  He 
found  it.  He  felt  the  ship  stir.  He  put  on 
more  power.  The  ship  surged  ahead.  More 
power  still  and  he  felt  the  floor-plates  push 
against  his  feet.  He  put  on  more  power  and 
more  and  more  . . . 

In  seconds  the  Stellaris  was  thrusting  away 
from  something  unseen  at  a full  gravity  ac- 
celeration. In  minutes  more  it  was  a gravity 
and  a half.  Rod  worked  grimly  with  a small 
pressor,  hunting  for  a focus  so  the  beam 
could  be  locked  to  the  object  it  was  to  thrust 
away  from. 

The  acceleration  increased.  The  fan- 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


shaped  pressors  were  pushing  against  some- 
thing which  came  closer  despite  the  repul- 
sive force  of  the  beams  the  Stellaris  played 
on  it.  There  was  an  arrogant  confidence  in 
the  other  space-ship,  which  seemed  to  be 
testing  out  the  maximum  power  the  Stellaris 
.could  exert.  Sweat  came  out  on  Rod’s  fore- 
head. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  small  pressor  found 
a focus  and  locked  and  he  struggled  fever- 
ishly against  nearly  two  gravities  to  the 
control-room.  Just  as  he  laid  his  hands  on 
the  force-field  switches  there  was  a sudden 
sickening  loss  of  all  but  the  most  minute 
sensation  of  weight  as  the  other  ship  darted 
out  of  the  pressor-beam  and  came  flashing 
up  beside  the  unwieldy  Stellaris. 

ROD  had  one  glimpse  of  it  as  he  flung 
the  force-field  switches  home.  It  was 
pyramidal.  It  blanked  out  a triangular  patch 
of  stars.  Rod  felt  a momentary  deathly  gid- 
diness— and  then  the  force-fields  closed  in. 
The  Stellaris’  ports  went  ebony-black  and  it 
was  again  in  the  dark  universe. 

Whatever  weapon  the  enemy  ship  intended 
to  use  did  not  follow  into  the  dark  cosmos, 
but  the  Earth-ship’s  focussed  pressor  did 
not  penetrate  its  own  force-fields  and  thrust 
and  thrust  and  thrust — with  all  the  power 
Rod  dared  to  put  into  its  coils. 

The  hulk  went  streaking  madly  through 
the  utter  blackness  of  its  private  cosmos  for 
second  after  second — and  nothing  hap- 
pened— and  then  for  minute  after  minute, 
then  for  hour  after  hour. 

For  a long  time  Rod  stood  grimly  at  the 
incomplete  instrument  board,  expecting  any 
instant  to  fed  that  deadly  giddiness  and 
then  death.  Some  weapon  had  been  used 
against  the  Stellaris  and  he  felt  sick  and  weak 
and  ill. 

But  after  a long  time  he  went  down  to  the 
engine-room  again  and  examined  the  single 
small  pressor-beam  he’d  focussed  and  locked 
on  the  pyramidal  ship  and  its  point  of  focus 
was  very,  very  far  beyond  the  point  at  which 
it  had  been  set.  He  could  not  guess  the 
distance.  There  had  been  no  chance  to  cali- 
brate the  controls.  But  it  was  very,  very,  very 
far  away  indeed. 

After  twelve  hours  the  pressor  could  no 
longer  adjust  to  the  increasing  distance.  The 
pyramidal  ship  went  beyond  its  range.  The 
locked  focus  went  off  and  the  ship  hurtled 
blindly  on  through  black  emptiness. 

“They  haven’t  got  our  force-fields,”  Rod 


23 

told  Kit,  grimly.  “There’s  that  much  gained. 
They  couldn’t  follow  us  when  we  vanished. 
At  least  we  can  play  hide-and-seek  with 
them !” 

Kit  had  heard  from  him  about  the  mo- 
mentary glimpse  he’d  had  of  the  other  craft. 

“That  feeling  we  had,”  she  said  with  a 
shudder.  “I  thought  I was  dying.  So  did 
everybody  else.” 

“We  probably  were,”  he  said  evenly.  “If 
it  had  lasted  a fraction  of  a second  longer 
they’d  have  caught  the  ship.  They’d  have 
examined  our  corpses  and  they’d  probably 
have  reported  and  had  the  records  searched. 
They’d  know  that  people  of  our  structure 
should  have  set  off  a gadget  on  Calypso — 
only  we  didn’t.  I suspect  we’re  not  the  only 
lucky  people  right  now!” 

An  hour  later  he  said  abruptly,  “I’m  going 
to  cut  the  field.  That  ship  is  a long  way 
off.  First  I’m  going  to  set  the  pressor-beams 
at  a wide  angle  as  a warning  system.  But 
we  ought  to  do  something  better.  ...” 

He  hand-set  tlie  beams  so  that  the  ship 
would  be  surrounded  by  a shield  of  repul- 
sion on  every  side.  Any  ship  Or  planet  or 
even  meteorite  that  might  be  within  range 
when  the  Stellaris  returned  to  normal  space 
would  bring  about  a repulsion  of  the  ship  it- 
self. 

Having  no  detection-instruments,  they 
could  tell  of  the  nearness  of  a solid  object 
they  could  not  see  by  the  stirring  of  the  ship 
itself.  Then  he  threw  the  switches  again, 
to  let  the  Stellaris  drop  back  into  the  uni- 
verse of  stars. 

A myriad-myriad  suns  surrounded  them, 
each  so  remote  that  it  was  but  a pin-point 
of  light.  Again  there  was  no  familiar  portion 
of- the  galaxy  within  view.  There  was  the 
Milky  Way,  to  be  sure,  but  even  that  seemed 
to  have  changed  its  aspect.  It  was  markedly 
brighter  on  one  side  than  the  other — and 
Earth  is  not  too  far,  on  a cosmic  scale,  from 
the  center  of  the  First  Galaxy. 

The  Stellaris  had  fled  at  uncountable  mul- 
tiples of  the  speed  of  light  while  in  the  dark 
universe.  It  was  certainly  many  thousands  of 
light-years  from  Earth,  with  no  possible  indi- 
cation either  of  its  first  course  or  of  its  sec- 
ond in  departing  from  it. 

Rod  stayed  in  normal  space  for  four  hours, 
and  the  pressor-beams  told  of  no  solid  object 
within  four  light-hours’  distance.  Grimly,  he 
went  back  to  the  dark  universe.  The  kinetic 
energy  of  the  Stellaris’  acquired  velocity  re- 
mained. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


24 

In  normal  space  it  meant  a certain  speed 
in  an  unknown  direction.  In  the  dark  uni- 
verse that  speed  was  multiplied.  He  kept  the 
ship  in  blackness  for  half  an  hour,  browbeat- 
ing an  electrician  meanwhile  into  beginning 
the  assembly  of  a short-short-wave  receiver 

OUT  into  normal  space  again — and  still 
no  star  within  view  which  seemed 
nearer  than  any  other.  He  had  a course  of 
action  planned  out,  which  was  almost  hope- 
less but  not  quite.  He  went  back  into  the 
dark  universe  once  more. 

Six  times  within  the  next  twenty-four  he 
came  back  to  normal  space.  Five  times  the 
Stellaris  was  utterly  alone  in  the  center  of 
mockingly  remote  stars. 

But  the  sixth  time — and  it  was  only  chance 
— the  Stellaris  winked  into  being  in  normal 
space  and  there  was  a giant  yellow  sun  per- 
ceptibly nearer.  It  had  at  least  a visible  disk 
and  flaring  prominences  leaped  and  curled 
outward  from  its  sides.  More,  there  were 
planets.  No  less  than  four  were  plainly 
visible  and  a monster  world — snow-covered 
from  pole  to  pole — swam  within  naked-eye 
view  from  the  vision-ports.  He  waited  with 
taut  nerves  beside  the  force-field  switches. 

A bellowing  voice  came  from  somewhere 
below  him  in  the  ship.  "No-o-o-o  radar!” 
That  was  the  electrician  beside  his  short- 
short-wave  receiver.  Only  voice  signals 
could  be  used  in  the  uncompleted  ship 
because  there  was  no  intercommunication 
system  in  being. 

Rod  waited.  The  pressor-beams  spread 
out,  out  and  out  at  the  speed  of  light.  Rod 
was  hollow-eyed  and  jumpy.  There  was  a 
stubble  of  beard  on  his  chin.  He  had  been 
doing  four  men’s  work  under  heavier  re- 
sponsibility than  any  man  or  men  should 
ever  be  required  to  accept,  because  he  be- 
lieved that  on  the  safety  or  utter  destruction 
of  the  Stellaris  hung  the  safety  of  the  human 
race. 

The  voice  came  again  from  below. 
“ No-o-o-o - radar!" 

The  Stellaris  then,  was  not  being  scanned. 
Not  yet,  anyhow.  The  ship  stirred  ever  so 
slightly.  The  pressor-beams,  fanning  out, 
had  reached  the  snow-covered  planet.  Rod 
called  orders  and  the  beams  were  narrowed. 

The  repulsion  was  from  that  planet  only. 
Unless  a space-ship  were  in  exact  direct  line 
between  the  Stellaris  and  the  planet  there  was 
nothing  in  space  that  was  menacing.  The 
odds  were  good.  But  Rod  waited  a long  half- 


hour, with  the  " No-o-o-o  radar!”  at  regular 
intervals,  before  he  even  began  to  relax. 

“I  guess  we’re  safe  for  the  moment,”  he 
said  wearily.  “We’ll  have  to  take  a chance 
anyhow.  Kit,  we  want  a tractor  put  on  that 
planet  yonder — not  the  near  one  but  the 
next  one  in  toward  this  sun.  We’ll  time 
it,  of  course.” 

Even  then  he  waited  tensely.  The  invisible, 
narrowed  tractor-beam  reached  out  at  a 
hundred-and-eighty-two-thousand  miles  a 
second.  Four  minutes — five — then  a per- 
ceptible jerk.  The  planet  was  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  fifty-five  million  miles  away  but 
now  the  ship  was  being  drawn  toward  it. 

“Rod,”  said  Kit  anxiously,  “you’re  ter- 
ribly tired!  Can’t  I stand  watch  for  you?” 
It’ll  be  hours  and  hours  before  we  get  there !” 

"It’ll  be  days,”  said  Rod  wearily.  “We’d 
better  stay  in  normal  space  for  this  trip. 
But  I’ll  fix  a gadget.  If  those  pyramid  devils 
can’t  follow  us  into  the  dark  universe  we  can 
fool  them  at  that.” 

He  surrendered  the  controls  to  her.  He 
improvised  a spring  which  would  throw  on 
the  force-fields  and  keep  them  on  if  the  per- 
son on  watch  should  be  killed  by  a weapon 
like  that  they  had  experienced. 

“Get  somebody  to  hold  this,”  he  said 
tiredly.  “There’s  enough  pull  to  give  us  the 
feeling  of  gravity.  And  I’ve  got  a sort  of 
idea.” 


CHAPTER  IV 
Dead  W or  Id 


HE  SAT  down  to  draw  plans  and  make 
calculations.  But  within  seconds  he  was 
asleep.  It  was  not  only  the  sixty-some  hours 
of  unremitting  tensity  but  the  strain  of  wor- 
rying about  what  might  be  happening  back 
on  Earth  that  had  worn  him  out.  It  would 
be  believed  of  course  that  he  had  taken  off  in 
the  Stellaris  deliberately  as  an  act  of  resent- 
ment at  having  his  command  taken  away 
from  him. 

And  of  course  he  would  be  classed  as  a 
traitor  or  murderer  or  worse  and  immediate- 
ly the  Space  Project  Committee  would  set 
to  work  to  duplicate  the  Stellaris  and  send  it 
off — undoubtedly  without  orders  to  be  wary 
of  metal  pyramids.  He  had  to  get  back  to 
Earth  in  time  to  stop  that — which  was 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


patently  impossible.  He  could  not  hope  to 
get  the  Stellaris  or  Kit  back  to  Earth  at  all. 

He  slept  and  Kit  stood  valiantly  beside 
the  almost  empty  control-board.  The  Stellaris 
moved  on  toward  the  unnamed  planet  of  an 
unknown  sun,  its  acceleration  giving  the  ef- 
fect of  weight  for  its  occupants.  Word  went 
about  the  oddly-assorted  ship's  company  of 
an  approaching  landing,  and  they  cheered. 

The  girl  biologists,  in  charge  of  the  air- 
purifying  plant,  brought  it  back  to  proper 
functioning.  The  hydroponic  vegetables  had 
borne  a small  crop  of  edibles,  despite  the  al- 
ternations of  gravity  with  no  gravity  at  all. 
The  crop  was  very  small  but  there  were  not 
ma'ny  to  eat  it.  Four  painters,  two  electri- 
cians, three  arc-welders  and  five  girls  had 
remained  in  the  ship  during  the  lunch-hour 
which  seemed  so  long  ago. 

Presently  a painter  came  to  the  control- 
room  to  present  a complaint.  Kit  put  her 
finger  to  her  lips,  pointed  to  Rod  and  beck- 
oned. She  explained  the  significance  of  the 
spring,  whispering,  and  made  Rod  as  com- 
fortable as  she  could  without  waking  him. 
Then  she  went  about  the  ship,  talking 
earnestly  to  every  individual. 

It  was  a very  good  idea,  because  with 
continued  normal  feeling  of  weight,  some- 
thing like  normal  mental  processes  returned 
to  the  unwitting  voyagers.  They  began  to 
realize  that  none  of  Earth’s  other  planets 
was  suited  for  human  use  and  that  it  was  not 
likely  that  this  unknown  world  would  be  of 
any  value  for  them. 

They  realized,  too,  the  utter  lack  of  prepa- 
ration for  interstellar  travel.  There  was  not 
even  food,  save  for  the  garden  in  the  air- 
purifying  room.  But  Kit  managed  to  change 
their  forebodings  to  no  worse  than  anxious 
curiosity  and  when  they  had  reached  that 


25 

stage  they  were  prepared  to  act  as  intelli- 
gently as  they  could.  So  the  situation,  as  far 
as  the  crew  was  concerned,  was  much  more 
hopeful. 

Kit  waked  Rod  when  their  chosen  planet 
loomed  large  before  them.  He  opened  his 
eyes  as  a voice  bellowed  monontonously, 
“No-o-o  radar!"  from  somewhere  below  in 
the  ship. 

“We’re  almost  there,”  said  Kit  anxiously, 
“and  we  don’t  know  how  to  land.” 

Rod  was  instantly  awake.  He  stared  at 
the  disk — big  as  a dinner-plate — on  the 
planet  ahead.  The  sensation  of  weight  proved 
that  the  Stellaris  was  hurtling  toward  it  at 
ever-increasing  speed. 

“We’ll  swatch  to  pressor-beams  and  slow 
up,”  he  said.  “So  far,  pretty  good!” 

He  sent  calls  through  the  ship,  warning  of 
the  change-over.  There  was  a bare  second 
of  weightlessness,  then  all  floors  became  ceil- 
ings and  all  ceilings  floors.  It  was  purely  a 
guess-work  process.  Rod  could  estimate 
the  planet’s  distance  only  by  the  time  needed 
for  the  pressor-beams  to  hit  it. 

He  could  not  estimate  the  ship’s  speed 
at  all.  But  he  set  to  work  to  improvise  land- 
ing tactics  by  rule  of  thumb.  As  a first 
measure  he  shifted  the  beams  to  one  side  of 
the  planet,  so  that  the  Stellaris  would  no 
longer  head  straight  for  the  center  of  the 
visible  hemisphere. 

It  was  necessary  to  remember  that  the 
danger  from  alien  space-ships  might  easily 
be  greater  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
universe.  The  Stellaris  might  actually  have 
come  back  to  normal  space  so  far  within  the 
empire  of  the  pyramid-builders  that  radar- 
beams  and  scouts  were  considered  unneces- 
sary. She  could,  conceivably,  be  heading  for 

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26  STARTLING  STORIES 


the  very  stronghold  of  the  alien  race  and 
could  have  been  undetected  only  because  such 
an  approach  was  unimaginable.  But  it  was 
not  likely. 

THE  ship’s  course  altered  almost  imper- 
ceptibly. She  had  been  approaching  too 
fast  for  an  endurable  stop  short  of  the  strange 
world’s  surface.  Now  she  went  angling  over 
to  a line  that  would  carry  her  past.  But  the 
great  disk  enlarged  and  grew  greater  and 
they  saw  seas  upon  it  and  clouds  and  vast 
areas  of  green  vegetation.  When  the  ship 
shot  past  the  twilight  zone  the  surface  was 
within  mere  thousands  of  miles. 

Rod  said,  “I  wish  we  had  a telescope  on 
board.  I’m  not  sure,  but  I saw  some  splotches 
that  could  be  cities.” 

“Do  you  think — ” 

“I’m  not  guessing,”  he  told  her.  “I’m  tak- 
ing a chance.  If  they  beam  us  it’s  the  pyramid 
people.  If  they  don’t  it  isn’t.  But  there  must 
be  plenty  of  civilization  in  our  galaxy.  The 
fact  that  they  had  a trick  all  worked  out  to 
get  warning  when  we  made  space-ships  rath- 
er hints  at  that. 

“If  there  are  two  civilizations  there  are 
probably  hundreds  of  thousands.  There  must 
be  too  many  for  the  pyramid  people  to  wipe 
out,  so  they  only  set  traps  for  them  and 
knock  them  off  when  they  reach  a space-ship 
culture.” 

Kit  said  uneasily,  “That — ship  certainly 
turned  something  on  us,  without  trying  to 
signal  us  first,  and  we  were  plainly  running 
away  and  not  trying  to  fight  them.” 

“Not  surprising,”  said  Rod  briefly.  “I 
saw  the  bas-reliefs  they  made  of  humans.” 
He  had.  On  the  pyramid  on  Calypso 
there  had  been  modeled  human  figures.  They 
should  have  been  irresistible  as  incitements 
to  curiosity,  so  that  the  doors  would  be 
opened.  But  the  figured  people  were  not 
modeled  by  friendly  artists.  The  figures  had 
been  made  by  craftsman  who  despised  their 
models. 

No  artist  can  keep  himself  out  of  his 
work  and  the  figures  had  actually  made  Rod 
angry  at  the  scorn  implicit  in  their  making. 
They  pictured  humans  with  strict  accuracy 
but  managed  somehow  to  classify  them  as 
beasts  and  vermin.  Men  would  not  have 
pictured  men  with  such  scorn. 

Rod  had  felt  instant  suspicion  and  hostility 
toward  the  builders  of  the  pyramid  and  was 
disinclined  to  do  anything  they  planned  for 
him  to  do.  That  was  why  he’d  cut  into  the 


pyramid  instead  of  hopefully  opening  Its 
doors — and  that  was  why  there  was  as  yet 
no  warning  that  humans  had  achieved  space- 
travel. 

Kit  said  presently,  “You’re  planning  to 
land,  Rod.  Can  we  test  the  air?” 

“The  sun’s  the  same  color  as  ours  at 
home,”  Rod  told  her.  “It  must  have  nearly 
the  same  spectrum.  And  the  vegetation’s 
green.  The  chemistry  must  be  the  same.  If 
plants  use  chlorophyl  here  to  utilize  sunlight 
like  ours,  the  air  must*  be  oxygen  and  nitro- 
gen and  CO2.  Other  gases  wouldn’t  work, 
we  can’t  even  guess  at  the  proportions.  We’ll 
probably  do,  though.” 

“And  the — gravity?”  she  said  uneasily. 

“We’ve  nothing  to  measure  it  with,”  he 
said  with  a shrug.  “But  we  do  know  that  we 
didn’t  have  to  push  unbearably  to  get  over  to 
one  side  and  run  past.  We  practically  tested 
the  gravity  with  our  feet — high  up  as  we 
are.”  Then  he  looked  at  her  sharply.  “I 
had  some  sleep,  Kit.  I doubt  that  you  did. 
Better  go  get  some.” 

She  hesitated,  and  looked  at  him  wist- 
fully. He  said  heavily,  “I’m  not  very  ro- 
mantic, am  I?  But  I’ve  got  plenty  on  my 
mind.  The  people  in  that  space-ship  tried 
to  kill  us  out  of  hand.  They  must  have  killed 
off  the  Martians. 

“They’ll  kill  not  only  us  but  everybody 
back  on  Earth  if  they  catch  us  and  find  out 
our  physical  structure  and  check  it  with  the 
records  they’ll  undoubtedly  have  made  when 
they  modeled  those  figures  on  the  Calypso 
pyramid.  So  we’ve  got  not  only  our  own 
lives  to  think  of  but  literally  everybody 
else’s. 

“Eve  got  to  try  to  figure  out  a way  to 
finish  this  ship,  and  arm  it  somehow — but 
I’ve  got  the  beginning  of  an  idea — and  I’ve 
got  to  concoct  some  way  to  blow  it  and  us 
literally  to  atoms  if  we’re  caught  and  killed. 
And  after  all  that  I’m — well — I’m  very  much 
in  love  with  you  and  I’ve  got  to  figure  out 
something  to  make  you  safe.” 

He  stood  doggedly  by  the  controls,  holding 
the  force-field  switches  against  the  springs 
that  would  throw  the  Stellaris  into  other- 
space  if  he  should  be  killed  where  he  stood. 
Kit’s  eyes  softened. 

“I — see.  We  can’t  think  about  us.  Not 
yet.” 

“Not  yet,”  he  agreed  heavily.  “If  we’re 
safe  here — and  I’m  beginning  to  think  we 
are — I’m  going  to  try  to  get  the  Stellaris 
down.  If  those  splotches  are  cities  the  in- 


27 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


habitants  may  be  anything  and  they  may 
be  friendly  or  not,  civilized  or  not.  But 
I’m  hoping  they’re  not  the  people  who  tried 
to  kill  us.” 

He  turned  back  to  the  vision-ports.  They 
were  over  the  night-side  of  the  planet,  and 
to  one  side — actually  it  felt  as  if  the  planet 
were  below — there  was  only  the  blank  black 
bulk  of  the  unknown  world.  It  was  hardly 
a thousand  miles  away  but  the  Stellaris  could 
not  be  checked  to  land  on  it  without  killing 
all  on  board  by  multiple-gravity  deceleration. 

Then  the  dark  globe  lay  behind  and  it  was 
time  to  change  back  to  tractor-beams  to  pull 
back  toward  it  and  lessen  the  ship’s  head- 
long speed  toward  infinity.  And  then,  hours 
later,  the  again-remote  planet  ceased  to 
dwindle  and  grew  large  once  more  and  he 
juggled  alternate  tractor  and  pressor-beams 
to  bring  the  Stellaris  close  to  its  day-side, 
then  to  match  speed  with  the  planet’s  surface. 
At  long  last  he  dared  let  the  clumsy  hulk 
which  was  the  Earth-ship  down  into  atmos- 
phere. 

BELLOWING  came  from  below. 

“No-o-o-o  radar!”  And  then  a new 
voice  called,  “No-o-o  radio!”  Because  a civ- 
ilization which  did  not  have  space-ships  or 
even  radar  could  have  broadcast-waves  in  its 
atmosphere,  as  Earth  had  done  for  nearly 
a hundred  years  before  space-travel  be- 
came possible  to  its  people. 

The  ship  went  heavily  lower  and  lower, 
more  and  more  slowly  in  relation  to  the 
jungle  underneath.  Where  the  ship  ap- 
proached there  was  jungle.  There  were 
rivers.  Far  away  there  were  the  slopes  of  a 
mountain  range  and,  off  to  one  side,  the 
authentic  blue  of  a sea.  The  ship  went  sog- 
gily  down  and  down,  its  small  and  accidental 
crew  gazing  at  the  scene  no  human  eyes  had 
ever  before  looked  at — lower  still  and  in- 
dividual jungle-growths  became  visible. 

There  was  a straight  streak  which  looked 
like  a highway  of  some  sort.  The  Stellaris 
floated  onward,  rocking  a little  on  the  pres- 
sor-beams which  supported  it.  Then  a city 
appeared  at  the  horizon.  There  were  towers 
and  pinnacles  and  a myriad  prismatic  flash- 
ings of  reflected  sunlight. 

But  there  was  no  movement,  no  smoke, 
no  aircraft  overhead,  no  signs  of  alarm  or 
recognition  of  the  Stellaris’  existence.  The 
ship  was  only  two  thousand  feet  up  and  there 
were  deep  depressions  in  the  vegetation  be- 
low where  its  pressor-beams  touched  ground 


to  uphold  it. 

The  city  drew  near.  And  it  was  dead. 
There  was  no  life  anywhere.  But  it  had  not 
been  dead  long  because  the  jungle  had  not 
yet  encroached  on  it.  It  was  simply  dead— 
undevastated,  untouched,  unharmed  but  dead. 

Rod  brought  the  ship  to  a wallowing  stop 
over  the  very  center  of  the  metropolis.  It 
reached  for  miles  in  every  direction.  On  a 
basis  of  human  occupancy,  it  could  have 
housed  a population  of  millions.  Yet  there 
was  no  movement  below.  Rod  began  pains- 
takingly to  let  down  for  a landing  in  a cen- 
tral open  space. 

Kit  said  in  a strained  voice ; “Rod ! Those 
little  things  on  the  highway.  Colored  things ! 
Brightly-colored !” 

“My  guess,”  said  Rod  briefly,  “is  that 
they’re  the  inhabitants.  People  who  could 
build  a city  like  this  would  be  pretty  civ- 
ilized. No  reason  why  they  shouldn’t  wear 
brightly-colored  clothes.” 

“But  they’re  not  moving!” 

“My  guess,”  said  Rod  again,  “is  that 
they’re  dead.” 

“A  plague?” 

“No.  Our  friends,”  said  Rod  grimly.  “A 
civilization  that  could  build  this  city  would 
be  close  to  space-travel.  Maybe  they  sent 
a ship  to  that  snow-covered  planet  and  found 
a pyramid  there  and  opened  it  up  to  see  who 
among  their  ancestors  had  gone  there  first — 
and  called  in  our  friends  to  exterminate 
them.” 

She  stared  at  him  in  horror.  His  face 
was  very  white.  He  nodded  toward  the  very 
center  of  the  open  space  into  which  the 
Stellaris  descended.  There  was  a bright- 
metal  pyramid  there. 

“If,  by  any  chance,  there  was  a space- 
ship off  on  a voyage  when  this  world  was 
murdered  and  it  came  back  after  the  mur- 
derers had  left,”  said  Rod  harshly,  “they’d 
probably  think  that  some  survivors  had  left 
word  for  them  in  that.  And  they’d  open  it. 

“At  a guess  that  pyramid  on  Calypso  would 
have  killed  me  too  if  I’d  opened  it  in  the 
normal  way.  Very  probably  that  was  it. 
The  ones  who  summoned  the  murderers 
wouldn’t  live  to  know  what  they’d  done  or 
take  back  any  word  of  what  a pyramid  im- 
plied.” 

The  ship  hovered  only  a hundred  feet 
above  the  ground.  Slowly,  slowly,  slowly, 
Rod  eased  it  downward.  He  expected  an  im- 
pact but  the  Stellaris  touched  the  strange 
world’s  surface  with  a surprising  and  quite 


STARTLING  STORIES 


28 

accidental  gentleness. 

Without  explanation  Rod  went  to  the  air- 
lock and  closed  the  inner  door.  He  cracked 
the  outer  door  and  sniffed  cautiously.  He 
tried  again.  He  took  a deep  breath.  The  air 
seemed  to  him  to  be  perfectly  adequate. 

To  make  sure,  he  stepped  outside  and 
breathed  deeply.  He  felt  a bitter  amusement 
at  the  difference  between  this  instant  of  land- 
ing on  a strange  world  of  another  sun,  and 
the  way  he’d  pictured  it  while  the  Stellaris 
was  building. 

He  hadn't  thought  that  the  landing  would 
be  made  from  an  almost  unmanageable  hulk, 
unequipped  for  landing  or  navigation  or  even 
the  testing  of  air,  lost  utterly  in  space,  with 
the  despairing  knowledge  that  probably  the 
best  that  could  be  hoped  was  that  the  dozen 
or  so  humans  on  the  ship  might  manage  to 
find  a place  of  perpetual  exile  with  a mur- 
derous alien  race  for  enemies. 

The  air  was  good  but  nothing  else  was 
promising. 

If  the  ship  that  had  contacted  the  Stellaris 
had  reported  its  encounter  a galaxy-wide 
search  for  a race  attaining  space-travel  might 
be  already  under  way.  If  they  found  Earth. 

For  that  matter,  Earth’s  cities  might  al- 
ready be  filled  with  crumpled  figures.  Earth’s 
air  might  already  be  empty  of  flyers.  Earth’s 
cities  might  already  be  as  dead  as  this  one. 
Rod  Cantrell  looked  at  tumbled  heaps  of 
garments  on  the  pavements  about  him  and 
cursed  thickly. 


CHAPTER  V 
Marks  of  Murder 


IT  WAS  one  of  the  girls  in  charge  of  the 
air-purifying  plant  who  solved  the  food 
problem  for  the  time  being.  Her  test  for 
toxic  substances  was  simple  but  absolutely 
effective.  A tiny  morsel  of  vegetation  was 
strapped  against  a girl’s  skin  near  the  wrist. 
A deadly  substance  would  produce  immediate 
reaction.  Irritation  or  pain  or  loss  of  sensa- 
tion would  show  toxicity  without  any  risk 
or  danger  to  the  girl. 

A group  of  two  painters  and  an  arc-welder 
marched  to  the  edge  of  the  jungle  and  gath- 
ered what  fruits  they  could  find.  They  came 
back  loaded  down,  reporting  apparent  cul- 
tivation of  the  ground,  only  partly  over- 


whelmed with  wild  growths.  Carefully  la- 
beled samples  decorated  the  arms  of  each  of 
the  five  girls  on  the  ship  for  the  next  two 
hours.  Of  all  the  specimens,  only  one  pro- 
duced a slight  rash. 

Then  it  was  a question  of  finding  out  which 
of  the  remaining  fruits  were  most  palatable. 
Tiny  samples,  chewed  and  swallowed,  an- 
swered that.  One  produced  cramps.  The 
rest  seemed  good.  The  problem  of  food, 
then,  became  to  some  extent  merely  a matter 
of  gathering  a sufficient  quantity. 

While  this  went  on  Rod  Cantrell  and  Kit 
and  one  of  the  ship’s  electricians  went  ex- 
ploring among  the  city’s  buildings  for  equally 
important  materials.  They  wanted  metals, 
Tools,  weapons.  They  hadn’t  much  hope  of 
the  last  in  a civilized  city. 

They  found  plenty  of  metal.  They  found 
few  tools.  What  they  did  find  in  horrible 
profusion,  though,  was  the  pitiful  population 
of  the  city.  Garments  lay  everywhere,  each 
with  a heap  of  dust  within  it.  What  unthink- 
able weapon  had  killed  them  could  only  be 
guessed  at — though  Rod  thought  he  had  an 
idea — but  surely  it  had  come  upon  them 
without  warning. 

There  were  huddled  heaps  of  garments  in 
places  that  were  plainly  shops,  though  the 
show-cases  hung  from  the  ceilings.  There 
were  innumerable  heaps  of  clothing  on  the 
public  ways,  and  in  the  queer  vehicles  the 
oddly  human-like  dead  race  had  used. 

Many  of  the  vehicles  were  wrecked,  as  if 
their  drivers  had  died  at  the  controls  and  the 
untended  machines  had  driven  on  senselessly 
until  they  crashed. 

There  were  many  quaintly  human-like 
items  in  the  dead  civilization.  The  explorers 
found  one  little  shop  with  identifiable  cages 
in  it,  as  if  for  small  captive  creatures,  and 
collars  of  metal  apparently  intended  for  pets. 

They  found  where  groups  of  the  vanished 
race  had  died  as  if  in  the  midst  of  friendly 
conversation  and — as  their  observation  grew 
more  acute — they  saw  that  some  of  the  heaps 
of  garments  were  smaller  than  others,  and 
that  usually  such  small  garments  were  beside 
larger  ones,  as  if  the  murdered  children  had 
been  with  their  parents. 

Kit  grew  very  pale.  Rod  glowered  as  they 
went  on.  The  electrician  with  them  scowled 
more  and  more  deeply. 

“Who  killed  all  these  folks?”  he  demanded 
pugnaciously.  “It  happened  all  at  once  an’ 
it  couldn’t  ha’  been  more’n  a couple  of  years 
ago.” 


29 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


“I  think,”  said  Rod  tonelessly,  “it  was 
the  gang  we  ran  away  from.  The  gang  that 
made  a metal  pyramid  on  Calypso.  The  same 
gang  that  built  a metal  pyramid  not  far  from 
where  I landed  the  ship — which  we’re  going 
to  make  use  of  if  we  have  luck.” 

The  electrician  spat.  “An’  you  think  they 
killed  these  people?” 

“Because,”  Rod  told  him,  “they  made  a 
space-ship.  The  pyramid  on  Calypso  was 
supposed  to  tip  them  off  when  we  did.  The 
pyramid  in  the  square  back  by  the  ship  is 
bait.  If  there  was  a space-ship  away  from 
home  when  this  world  was  killed  and  if  it 
came  back,  the  people  in  it  would  think  some 
survivors  of  the  catastrophe  had  left  a rec- 
ord for  them.” 

“They’d  go  inside  to  see.  And  they’d  be 
killed.  And  the  murderers  would  be  notified 
to  come  and  mop  up  just  to  make  sure.  See?” 
The  electrician  spat  again.  “We’d  better 
figure  out  something  to  slap  them  guys 
down,”  he  said  coldly.  “They  need  it.” 

The  three  went  on.  And  everywhere  they 
moved  through  the  city  they  saw  new  evi- 
dences of  the  high  degree  of  civilization  the 
dead  race  had  achieved,  more  and  more  of 
the  pathetic  heaps  of  garments  which  had 
been  members  of  that  race.  Kit,  perhaps, 
saw  those  most  clearly.  The  electrician  saw 
also  the  enormous  wealth  left  ownerless  by 
the  annihilation  of  its  creators. 

Not  only  was  there  a metropolis  left,  which 
humans  could  take  over  and  use  with  little 
modification,  but  there  were  goods  and  even 
jewels — strangely-cut  and  very  beautiful — 
and  all  the  other  portable  possessions  of  a 
civilized  world.  He  made  no  move  to  burden 
himself  though.  There  was  too  much  of 
riches  in  sight  to  make  mere  looting  a temp- 
tation. But  it  was  plain  enough  that  he  saw. 

ROD  saw  the  technical  side  of  the  mur- 
dered culture.  He  noted  the  lavish 
use  of  non-corrodible  alloys.  He  saw  plastics 
used  where  human-made  plastics  would  not 
have  been  satisfactory.  He  took  a small 
sliver  of  colorless  transparent  stuff  and  held 
a flame  to  it.  It  did  not  discolor  or  char. 

“Looks  like  fluocarbon,”  he  said  ab- 
sorbedly.  “These  people  had  gone  places!” 
Then  they  entered  a great  building  which 
was  plainly  a power-station  and  a communi- 
cation-center at  once.  Here  Rod  was  in  his 
element  and  the  electrician  was  not  far  be- 
hind him.  The  central  hall  was  huge  and 
bright  with  sunlight  and  there  were  many 


machines  upon  the  floor.” 

“Generator  yonder,”  said  Rod,  nodding. 
“Looks  like  an  electron-emitting  isotope 
trick  like  ours.  See  the  power-leads  from 
it?” 

The  electrician  observed,  “Silver  bus-bars. 
Looks  like  nylon  insulation  everywhere.” 

“Or  fluocarbon  plastic.  Hm.”  Rod 
stared  at  a huge  block  of  solid  transparent 
stuff  with  metal  sheets  and  rods  deeply  im- 
bedded in  it.  Power-leads  ran  to  it  but  the 
metal  sheets  did  not  connect  within  the  trans- 
parency. He  stared  while  the  others  wan- 
dered about.  Then  Kit,  a little  distance  away, 
uttered  a cry. 

“Rod!  Come  here!  Oh — it’s  terrible!” 

Rod  went  quickly.  And  Kit  was  standing 
with  clenched  hands  before  a double  row  of 
instruments.  Between  them  the  floor  was 
quite  covered  with  the  bright  garments  of  the 
dead  race,  showing  that  all  the  occupants  of 
the  building  had  been  crowded  here  when 
death  fell  upon  their  city.  And  the  rows  of 
instruments  showed  why. 

They  were,  in  effect,  television  instru- 
ments. But  it  took  time  to  realize  it,  because 
on  each  screen  a distinct  and  motionless 
image  remained.  Each  instrument  still 
showed  the  picture  that  had  been  upon  it  at 
the  instant  the  city  died. 

Some  of  the  pictures  were  of  individual 
members  of  the  race  in  the  act  of  speaking. 
Others — many  others — were  of  scenes  upon 
the  ways,  either  of  this  city  or  another,  show- 
ing the  dead  race  as  it  had  been.  On  two 
screens  there  was  no  hint  of  danger  or  of  the 
coming  of  death. 

But  no  less  than  six  showed  the  death- 
agonies  of  those  who  were  still  not  dead.  The 
screens  were  horrible  to  look  at.  Three — and 
this  was  where  the  heaps  of  garments  were 
thickest — showed  the  sky.  Each  showed  a 
strange  object  against  a background  of  clouds 
or  stars.  And  the  three  were  identical.  Each 
was  a monstrous  metal  pryamid. 

Rod  stared  woodenly  at  the  images.  Then 
he  examined  the  instruments  which  held 
them. 

“Vision-screens,”  he  announced  unneces- 
sarily. Then  he  added,  “A  good  trick.  They 
didn’t  project  their  television.  They  modified 
a plate  of  some  sort  that  can  change  like — • 
well — like  the  skin  of  a chameleon.  Didn’t 
have  to  v\orry  about  brightness.  Like  a 
photograph,  only  it  must  have  moved.  When 
the  machine  went  off  the  last  picture  stayed 
until  it  went  back  on  again.” 


30 


STARTLING  STORIES 


He  fumbled  and  peeled  off  a strip  of  flex- 
ible material  which  formed  the  screen.  The 
image  remained  on  it.  It  was,  in  effect,  a 
photograph  of  the  last  object  the  dying  eyes 
of  these  people  had  looked  at.  He  hunted  and 
found  a stock  of  similar  sheets — but  blank — 
to  be  used  as  replacements. 

“Television,”  he  said,  “only  you  could 
keep  any  scene  you  wanted  to  as  a photo- 
graph. I think  I’ve  got  a good  hunch  on 
what  killed  these  people.  The  trouble  is  to 
prove  it.” 

Kit  caught  her  breath.  She  was  grief- 
stricken  at  the  pictures  on  the  other  screens. 

“Rod ! They  were  so  much  like  us ! So 
much  like  us !” 

“That  flying  pryamid  was  the  destroyer,” 
Rod  pointed  out.  “A  pyramid’s  a good  struc- 
tural form — the  most  rigid  you  can  make 
with  straight  girders.  And  there’s  no  sense 
in  streamlining  a space-ship  because  there’s 
no  air-resistance  in  space.  Besides,  polished 
metal  at  such  angles  would  reflect  away 
radar-beams — solar  heat  too  if  they  wanted 
to  go  close  to  a sun. 

“My  guess  is  that  this  was  a fighting- 
ship.  It  appeared  in  the  sky  overhead  and 
these  people’s  telescopes  picked  it  up  and 
they  were  watching  it  when  they  died.” 

The  electrician  said  suddenly,  “Hey! 
These  sets  must’ve  blown  out — ” 

“Whatever  killed  the  people  stopped  the 
sets,”  agreed  Rod  coldly.  “They  wouldn’t 
have  switched  them  off  just  because  they 
were  dying.  Whatever  killed  the  people  did 
something  to  the  sets!  If  we  open  one  up 
we  may  check  on  an  idea  I’ve  got.” 

HE  SAW  the  electrician  reach  in  his 
overall  pocket  for  tools.  He  went 
back  to  the  big  block  of  plastic  with  the  im- 
bedded and  covered  metal  plates.  The  thing 
bothered  him.  The  plastic  was  plainly  an 
insulator  and  as  plainly  the  whole  thing  was 
designed  to  perform  some  electrostatic  or 
electronic  function.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to 
understand.  'v 

One  of  the  plates  wasn’t  solid  metal  but 
pierced  with  innumerable  holes  like  a sieve. 
Rod  frowned,  a hunch  telling  him  that  this 
was  important.  He  tried  to  figure  it  out  as 
an  electrostatic  device,  guessing  at  capacity- 
effects  between  the  enclosed  plates.  But  this 
part  would  neutralize  the  capacity-effect  be- 
tween that  and  that  and — 

His  mouth  droppd  open.  It  was  a vacuum 
tube ! Save  that  the  parts  were  imbedded  in 


plastic  instead  of  held  in  emptiness,  it  was 
plainly  a vacuum  tube ! The  plastic  must  have 
acted  electronically  like  a vacuum,  allowing 
electron-flow.  And  they  must  have  had  the 
trick  of  cold  emission  of  electrons  from  a 
metal  surface!  If  that  were  so  this  device 
would  handle  incredible  amounts  of  power ! 

As  Rod’s  eyes  began  to  glow,  the  elec- 
trician came  to  him.  “Hey!  We  can  fix 
these  sets!  I opened  one  up  and  a pair  of 
porcelain  insulators  is  crumbled  all  up.  They 
were  the  mounting  insulators  and  they  went 
to  powder  and  the  works  settled  and  shorted 
and  quit  workin’ !” 

Rod  wanted  to  babble  of  his  own  discovery 
but  instead  he  followed  back  to  the  vision- 
sets.  It  was  as  the  electrician  had  said.  Sup- 
ports for  the  apparatus  within  the  cases  had 
shivered  to  powder.  Kit  had  a strange  ex- 
pression on  her  face. 

“Rod ! I’ve  got  an  idea.  I don’t  know  any- 
thing about  science  but  in  school  once  our 
instructor  showed  us  how  supersonic  waves 
could  break  glass  to  powder  if  they  were 
strong  enough  and  of  sufficient  high-fre- 
quency. He  said  they  were  used  to  sterilize 
things.  Could  the  way  these  people  were 
killed  be  something  like  that?” 

“It  could,”  said  Rod  grimly.  “We  had  a 
dose  of  something  like  it  from  that  other 
space-ship — remember?  But  air  won’t 

carry  supersonics.  It’s  elastic  and  they  go 
down  in  pitch.  And  there  wasn’t  any  air 
where  that  other  space-ship  caught  up  with 
us.  I think  you’re  close.  Very  close.” 

The  electrician  showed  Kit  the  powder 
remaining  from  the  shattered  insulators.  It 
was  very  fine.  The  rest  of  the  insulation  was 
plastic.  Then  he  bent  down  and  tore  at  silken- 
garments  on  the  floor.  Not  even  Kit  protest- 
ed. The  dead  race  had  no  such  bony  skeletons 
as  humanity  possesses.  There  was  only  fine 
dust  within  the  garments.  The  electrician 
folded  torn  cloth  to  a pad. 

“This’s  dry,”  he  observed.  “It’d  ought  to 
do  for  a insulator  for  a try,  anyhow.” 

Hex  reached  into  the  case,  then  drew  back 
and  put  on  rubber  gloves  for  safety’s  sake. 
As  he  lifted  the  settled  mass  of  coils  and 
wires  there  was  a tiny  snapping  sound.  A 
spark  jumped  brittlely  and  ceased.  The  elec- 
trician put  the  pad  in  place.  He  prepared  an- 
other and  adjusted  that. 

Kit  said  tensely,  “It’s  working !” 

They  looked.  The  sheet  on  which  a colored 
photograph  had  appeared  permanently  fixed, 
now  changed  beneath  their  eyes.  It  was 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


extraordinary  to  see  the  picture,  by  the  light 
from  overhead,  change  itself  by  an  apparent 
flow  of  pigment  from  one  spot  to  another  to 
form  a new  arrangement  of  shapes  and 
colors.  Then — 

Where  the  scene  on  this  instrument’s 
screen  had  been  that  of  the  last  instant  in  the 
life  of  the  people  of  this  planet,  now  it  was 
the  scene  currently  in  being.  The  street  was 
empty  of  moving  forms  but  there  were  those 
empty  heaps  of  garments  on  the  ground 
where  the  people  of  the  planet  had  been.  It 
was  plainly  a current  view  of  the  place  where 
the  connected  sending  instrument  stood. 

And  then,  preposterously,  as  they  watched 
there  came  a movement  in  the  distance.  Kit 
caught  her  breath.  Then  the  electrician 
swore  luridly.  And  then  Rod  clenched  his 
hands  until  the  blood  flowed  in  his  palms. 


CHAPTER  VI 
Pyramids  Coming! 


THERE  were  living  creatures  moving  to- 
ward the  sending-instrument.  Not  many 
— the  three  human  watchers  could  see  clearly 
and  there  were  but  four  individuals  in  sight. 
Those  four  individuals  rode  in  one  of  the  odd 
vehicles  native  to  the  planet. 

They  had  bulbous  heads  and  attenuated 
arms  and  legs,  and  one  of  them  guided  the 
vehicle  to  a spot  no  more  than  fifty  or  sixty 
yards  from  the  vision-sender.  There  the 
vehicle  stopped.  The  four  got  out  and  stared 
at  a building. 

One  lifted  something  from  a belt  about  his 
middle.  Flame  darted  from  it  in  a thin 
straight  line.  He  swept  it  up,  and  sidewise, 
and  down,  and  across  again.  A section  of 
plastic-sealed  wall  fell  slowly  outward. 

From  somewhere  within  the  vision-instru- 
ment, they  heard  the  crash  of  its  fall.  The 
four  marched  unconcernedly  across  the 
wreckage,  trampling  underfoot  the  gay 
garments  of  the  murdered  native  race. 

Rod  said  in  a whisper,  “This  may  be  a 
sender  too.  No  noise !” 

The  three  humans  stood  motionless.  In 
minutes  the  four  stick-like  figures  came  out, 
burdened  with  loads  of  shimmering  stuff  the 
watchers  could  not  identify.  They  piled  it  in 
the  vehicle.  They  went  back  as  if  for  more. 
Rod  thrust  the  others  from  before  the 


31 

vision-machine  so  that,  if  this  were  a two- 
way  instrument,  their  images  would  not  re- 
main on  the  screen  at  the  other  end.  Crisply 
he  ripped  out  the  pads  of  temporary  insula- 
tion. There  was  a tiny  spark  and  the  picture 
ceased  to  move. 

“They’re  looters,”  said  Rod  grimly. 
“They’re  not  the  native  race  certainly.  Pre- 
sumably they’re  the  crowd  that  travels  in 
those  flying  pyramids.  They’re  the  mur- 
derers. And  now  it  becomes  clear  why  they 
wait  for  another  race  to  reach  the  space- 
ship stage  of  civilization  before  they  murder 
them. 

“A  civilized  race  leaves  a civilization  be- 
hind when  it  dies.  It  leaves  cities  to  be  looted. 
It  turns  murder  from  a precaution  into  a 
business!”  His  nostrils  were  widened.  He 
breathed  heavily,  went  white  with  a deep, 
corrosive  anger. 

“We  go  back  to  the  ship,”  he  said  flatly. 
“You  see  the  pattern!  They  murdered  the 
natives  of  this  planet  without  warning  and 
set  up  at  least  one  pyramid  to  tell  them  if  any 
survivors  turned  up  later. 

“When  they  were  sure  it  was  quite  safe 
they  came  back  and  now  they’ve  begun  the 
leisurely  looting  of  the  cities  whose  inhabi- 
tants they  killed.  Quite  safe  and  very  logi- 
cal.” 

His  tone,  at  the  end,  changed  to  raging 
fury.  But  he  led  the  way  back  toward  the 
ship  without  a word  of  explanation.  He  was 
torn  between  quite  irrational  rage  and  a 
desperate  desire  to  get  Kit  away  from  here 
and  out  of  danger.  Yet  he  knew  that  even 
back  on  Earth,  unless  something  quite  im- 
possible happened,  Kit  would  be  equally 
doomed.  Whether  in  flight  through  space  or 
hidden  in  the  dark  universe  she  was  in  no 
better  case. 

Through  the  air-lock  and  into  the  ship.  The 
party  gone  to  gather  fruit  was  back  with  a 
large  supply.  Rod  called  a meeting  of  the 
curiously-assorted  ship’s  company.  He  curt- 
ly summed  up  the  situation. 

“There  are  three  things  we  can  do,”  he 
said  shortly  at  the  end.  “We  can  leave  this 
planet,  which  is  being  looted  by  the  creatures 
who  killed  its  inhabitants.  That  means  tak- 
ing a chance  we  can’t  even  estimate  of  finding 
another  planet  where  we  can  try  to  pro- 
vision ourselves — and  possibly  arm  ourselves 
for  defense. 

“We  can  go  into  the  dark  universe  and 
open  the  air-lock  and  die  quickly.  Or — ” he 
paused — “we  can  stay  here,  fight  or  dodge 


STARTLING  STORIES 


32 

the  looters  and  try  to  find  an  observatory 
and  starmaps  and  possibly  the  way  back 
home.” 

There  could  be  no  dissension.  But  a 
painter  pointed  out  that  since  he  hadn’t 
agreed  to  this  voyage  he  considered  that  he 
was  on  overtime — rather,  double-time  pay  for 
all  work  done  outside  of  his  regular  job  of 
painting.  His  union,  in  fact,  might  insist  on 
a still  higher  rate  of  pay.  And  he  would 
work  only  if  assured  that  a mediation-based 
award  of  pay  would  be  accepted. 

Rod  agreed  impatiently. 

“But  the  first  thing,”  he  said  urgently,  “is 
to  hide  the  ship.  The  only  safe  hiding-place 
is  the  dark  universe.  You  know  how  the  field- 
generators  were  tested.  We  anchored  the 
ship  in  place  with  focused  tractor-beams  and 
then  turned  on  the  fields.  She  went  into  the 
dark  universe,  but  stayed  in  the  part  of  it 
parallel  to  her  slip.  When  the  fields  were 
turned  off  she  came  back  to  where  she’d 
been.  That’s  what  we’ll  have  to  do  now.” 

NE  of  the  girl  biologists  said  dismally, 
“No  weight?” 

“No  weight,”  agreed  Rod.  “Except  for 
those  of  us  out  on  the  planet,  working  a little 
trick  I think  we  can  handle.  Who  volunteers 
for  that?” 

He  had  his  pick  of  the  ship’s  company.  He 
chose  an  electrician  and  a painter  and  almost 
angrily  refused  Kit’s  insistence  that  she  be  of 
the  party. 

"I’m  not  going  to  take  any  chances,”  he 
told  her,  “but  I don’t  want  to  be  worried 
about  you.  And  you’re  more  able  than  any- 
body else  to  attend  to  what  has  to  be  done — 
on  the  ship,  that  is.” 

He  shifted  the  Stellaris  on  her  pressor- 
beams  to  a position  close  by  the  walls  of  a 
massive  building.  He  anchored  her  there  by 
focused  beams  and  flicked  on  the  force-fields 
for  the  infinitesimal  part  of  a second.  Back 
in  normal  space  the  ship  had  not  moved.  He 
tried  it  again  for  longer  periods. 

The  anchoring  tractors  worked  exactly  as 
he  wished.  Focused,  they  worked  even  from 
the  other-space,  though  when  unfocused  they 
could  not  be  used  either  into  or  out  of  it.  He 
wrote,  at  some  length.  Then  he  took  a half- 
dozen  small  objects  and  focused  material- 
handler  tractor  beams  on  them — small  beams. 
He  turned  the  tractor-power  away  down  and 
then  took  them  out  of  the  ship  despite  the 
reduced-power  tractor’s  pull. 

He  wedged  them  in  place  so  they  could 


not  fly  back  to  the  ship  until  released  but 
so  that  they  would  fly  back  to  the  ship,  even 
into  the  dark  universe,  when  set  free.  Then 
he  was  ready.  He  and  his  two  followers  went 
outside.  Rod  looked  up  to  the  port  through 
which  Kit  regarded  him  anxiously.  He  waved 
his  hand. 

There  was  a puff  of  air.  The  Stellaris — 
was  not.  There  was  only  emptiness  where 
she  had  been.  She  was  in  another  cosmos,  in 
another  set  of  dimensions,  as  far  removed 
from  this  planet’s  surface  as  the  farthest 
island  universe. 

Yet  if  any  of  the  small  objects  arranged 
for  the  purpose  were  released  it  would  be 
drawn  to  the  ship  and  through  the  force- 
field  and  into  the  open  air-lock  in  the  frac- 
tion of  a second,  implying  a removal  of  no 
more  than  yards. 

Rod  started  off  for  the  big  building  in 
which  he'd  found  the  television  sets  and  the 
isotopic  generator  and  the  huge  mass  of 
plastic  which  was  a vacuum  tube  in  its  func- 
tioning. On  the  way  he  spoke  crisply. 

“We  had  a space-ship  turn  something  on 
us  that  was  pretty  bad.  It  lasted  only  the 
fraction  of  a second,  so  it  didn’t  kill  us.  Here 
something  deadly  hit.  It  didn’t  break  plastic 
or  metal  or  stone  but  it  crumbled  ceramic 
insulators  to  powder.  Got  any  idea  what  it 
could  be  ?” 

The  painter,  knitting  his  brows,  said, 
“You  can  break  china  stuff  when  plastic  only 
bounces.  What  they  got?  Something  that 
smacks  hard?” 

“They  didn’t  push  down  the  buildings,” 
Rod  pointed  out.  “A  bunch  of  little  blows, 
like  a compressed-air  drill,  will  cut  through 
stone  that  a straight  push  or  a rotary  drill 
won’t  handle.  My  guess  is  they  had  a sort  of 
pressor-beam,  only  instead  of  pushing  stead- 
ily it  hit  hard  and  fast — and  often.  Vibra- 
tion.” 

The  electrician  said,  demurring,  “Y’d  get 
an  awful  kick-back  from  a pressor-beam  that 
went  off  an’  on  like  that !” 

“Suppose,”  said  Rod,  “in  between  it  was 
a tractor?  Suppose  they  had  a beam  that 
changed  from  a pressor  to  a tractor  a hundred 
times  a second — two  hundred  thousand? 
What  then?” 

The  three  men  took  half  a dozen  steps 
toward  the  hall  of  the  machines  and  the  tele- 
vision sets.  Then  the  electrician  grunted. 

“Mmmh!  You  could  fix  the  tensor-plate 
to  be  a chopper!  Migawd,  yeah!  Say  I I 
could  fix  one  o’  them!” 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


“We’re  going  to,”  said  Rod  curtly.  “We’re 
going  to  use  something  the  people  that  built 
this  .city  made.  My  guess  is  that  it’ll  handle 
a few  hundred  million  kilowatts.  And  I 
know  a power-unit  that’ll  give  it  that  much 
power — for  awhile.  We’re  going  to  work 
like  hades!” 

IN  HIS  mind  there  was  a feeling  of  ter- 
rible urgency.  There  were  looters  in 
some  other  city  of  this  same  planet.  That 
meant  there  was  a pyramid-ship  here  too.  It 
might  be  the  plan  of  the  space-murderers  to 
loot  one  city  of  this  planet  at  a time.  It  was 
much  more  likely  that  there  would  be  cargo- 
ships  coming  to  load  up  with  the  booty  of 
their  crime  at  as  many  cities  as  possible. 

They’d  have  waited  until  they  felt  it  safe 
to  loot — but  once  they  began  they  would  not 
want  the  looting  to  spread  over  a term  of 
years.  After  all,  the  jungle  would  begin  to 
creep  into  the  dead  cities.  Since  there  were 
already  looters  in  one  city  there  should  be 
others  on  the  way. 

The  electrician  set  about  gathering  the 
material  for  his  coils  and  plates,  cutting  away 
freely  at  bus-bars  and  cables  of  solid  silver 
to  supply  his  needs.  With  power  such  as  Rod 
had  spoken  of  no  mere  wire  would  serve  as 
conductors.  He  cut  and  tugged  and  tugged 
and  cut. 

Rod  and  the  painter  went  out  to  hunt  for 
a vehicle  that  could  be  made  to  run.  When 
they  found  one  not  outwardly  wrecked  Rod 
had  to  sweat  over  it  to  discover  how  it  ran. 
It  stirred  feebly — and  that  was  all.  They 
tried  a second  and  its  power  was  dead. 

It  was  not  until  they  came  upon  one  which 
had  apparently  waited  for  its  owners  or 
passengers  beneath  an  overhanging  arch — so 
that  it  was  protected  from  rain — that  the 
queer  vehicle  moved  briskly.  Then  they  had 
to  learn  to  guide  it. 

But  they  were  back  and  trundling  into  the 
great  hall  before  the  electrician  had  begun 
to  shape  those  illogical  and  superficially  in- 
sane twistings  of  metal  which  ordinarily  are 
hidden  by  weather-proof  housings  and  care- 
ful range-limiters,  in  the  tractor  and  pressor- 
beams  of  commerce. 

He  stopped  to  help  Rod  make  sure  of  the 
cutting-off  of  the  isotopic  generator  and  then 
the  two  of  them  hacked  at  heavy  leads  and 
struggled  with  the  massive  bus-bars  they 
would  require.  The  painter  judgmatically 
contrived  a way  to  load  the  big  block  of 
plastic — which  was  a vacuum  tube — on  the 


33 

vehicle.  Then  Rod  and  the  electrician 
mounted  their  coils  about  the  “tube”  in  its 
exotic  placing. 

“I’ve  got  a hunch,”  said  Rod  suddenly 
“This  is  our  mount!  We’ll  run  it  up  to  the 
pyramid,  cut  in  and  connect  the  leads  with 
the  power-unit  there.  And  then — ” 

The  electrician  swung  around  suddenly. 
“Yeah!”  he  said,  blankly.  “Then!  Looka- 
heah ! This  thing  ain’t  got  any  guides ! I 
got  her  hooked  to  squeal  up  to  the  bloopin’ 
point,  an’  with  enough  power  in  her  there 
ain’t  goin’  to  be  anything  in  who  knows 
how  far  ain’t  goin’  to  hot  up!  Where’  we 
goin’  to  be  when  you  turn  her  on?” 

“On  the  ship,”  said  Rod,  “and  in  the  dark 
universe.  We’ll  be  safe  there.  I’ve  got  an 
idea  how  bad  this  is  going  to  be !” 

He  worked  on,  grimly.  Hours  passed. 
Sweat  covered  him.  The  electrician  mopped 
his  forehead  from  time  to  time.  The  painter 
helped  awkwardly,  obeying  orders.  The  feel- 
ing of  tenseness  grew  greater  and  greater  in 
Rod’s  mind.  It  was  unreasonable  but  it  was 
overpowering.  It  was  a hunch  so  strong  that 
at  last  he  dared  not  wait  longer. 

“We  get  going,”  he  said  brittlely.  “I’d  like 
to  file  it  down  a little  more  but  we  can’t 
risk  it.  Come  along!” 

He  started  the  little  vehicle.  He  ran  it 
slowly  out  of  the  building,  then  faster  and 
ever  faster  to  the  square  where  the  Stellaris 
had  landed.  He  backed  it  to  the  base  of  the 
pyramid — which  was  so  much  like  that  one 
on  Calypso — save  that  the  bas-reliefs  pictured 
another  race  than  the  human — and  stopped 
the  vehicle. 

He  ran  across  the  square  to  where  he  had 
wedged  certain  small  objects  in  place.  He 
scribbled  a note  to  Kit  on  a scrap"  of  paper 
as  he  ran.  The  paper  was  the  order  removing 
him  from  authority  over  the  Stellaris.  With 
an  almost  hysterical  sensation  of  urgency  he 
jammed  the  note  into  the  little  object,  which 
pulled  and  tugged  to  escape  from  his  hand. 
He  released  it. 

It  flashed  through  the  air — and  vanished. 
It  had  been  drawn  through  the  force-field 
which  cut  off  all  the  rest  of  the  universe  of 
stars  from  the  Stellaris.  It  had,  unquestion- 
ably, gone  into  other-space  and  clanked  loud- 
ly in  the  open  air-lock  door  of  the  space-ship. 

AND  Rod  stood  wrestling  with  his  illogi- 
cal impatience  while  seconds  ticked 
away,  more  seconds  and  more — but  he  had 
given  strict  orders  that  when  a noise  of  an 


STARTLING  STORIES 


34 

arriving  object  sounded  in  the  air-lock,  the 
outer  door  was  to  be  closed  and  the  object 
examined  for  a note  before  any  action  was 
taken. 

Then — there  was  the  Stellaris  before  him, 
come  out  of  another  set  of  dimensions  and 
another  universe  to  obey  his  orders. 

He  rushed  into  the  air-lock,  shaking  with 
the  feeling  of  imminent  need.  “A  torch!”  he 
commanded  feverishly.  “A  cutting-torch ! 
Make  it  quick ! Speed ! For  the  love  of — ” 

He  took  the  tiny,  deadly  instrument  and 
raced  back  with  it.  He  began  fiercely  to  cut 
through  the  plating  of  the  pyramid  which 
was  intended  to  kill  any  who  opened  it  in 
the  obvious  way  and  signal  the  tampering  to 
a race  of  killers.  The  metal  smoked  and  a 
thin  line  of  parting  showed.  He  cut  through 
swiftly,  counting  somehow  upon  the  inner 
identity  of  this  pyramid  to  the  other  he  had 
opened. 

It  was  identical.  He  crawled  inside, 
dragging  the  torch,  scorching  his  clothing 
and  legs  on  the  hot  edges  he  had  cut.  Again 
he  cut  at  metal  ruthlessly.  He  snapped  com- 
mands and  the  electrician  fed  in  one  long 
section  of  bus-bar.  He  welded  it  to  a con- 
nection. He  welded  a second  semi-flexible 
bar. 

He  backed  out  and  barked  to  the  painter 
to  get  string,  a plumb-line,  anything  that 
was  cord.  And  not  to  let  anybody  come  out 
of  the  ship ! Even  as  he  commanded,  he  was 
feverishly  using  the  torch  to  connect  the 
snaky  bus-bars  from  the  pyramid’s  interior 
to  the  preposterous-seeming  device  mounted 
on  the  odd  small  vehicle. 

He  finished  and  cast  aside  the  torch  to  at- 
tach the  string  with  unreasonably  shaking 
fingers  to  the  switch  which  was  so  ingenious 
and  so  easy  to  throw  and  would  handle  so 
monstrous  a current. 

“Okay,”  he  barked.  “Get  back  and  in  the 
ship!  Run!” 

He  backed  toward  the  Stellaris  himself, 
paying  out  the  string. 

Then  he  heard  Kit  crying  out.  " Rod — 
Pyramids!” 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw  a mote 
in  the  sky  at  the  edge  of  the  horizon.  But  he 
dared  not  hasten.  He  paid  out  the  string 
and  paid  it  out.  He  stripped  off  his  coat  and 
knotted  the  end  of  the  string  to  it.  Then  he 
ran. 

There  were  voices  babbling  about  him  as  he 
focused  a tractor-beam  on  his  coat,  a hundred 
feet  away.  With  the  least  possible  trace  of 


power  he  saw  the  cloth  stir. 

“Go  ahead!”  he  roared. 

He  stared  out  the  vision-port.  There  was 
not  one  pyramid  in  sight  but  three.  They 
came  drifting  onward  and  downward,  lower 
and  lower,  toward  the  city.  The  Stellaris 
must  be  visible.  They  would  turn  their 
beams  on  it  as  a mere  routine  precaution. 

All  visible  things  turned  red,  flashed 
through  all  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  to 
violet  and  dead-black.  The  Stellaris  was  in 
other-space,  the  dark  universe. 

Then  Rod  raised  the  power  on  the  tractor- 
beam,  drawing  his  coat  toward  him  in  an- 
other set  of  dimensions.  He  heard  a faint 
tinking  sound — the  coat’s  metal  buttons  were 
smacking  forcibly  against  the  ship’s  hull. 

Then  Rod  wanted  to  be  sick — from  relief. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Ambush 


TIME  passed  slowly  indeed  in  the  other- 
space.  Rod  found  himself  doubting  the 
time-rate  of  his  watch.  But  a watch  did 
keep  the  same  time  in  the  dark  universe  as  in 
normal  space.  He  knew  it.  It  had  been  veri- 
fied on  his  three  interplanetary  trips  and  in 
the  original  testings  of  the  Stellaris  when  her 
force-field  coils  were  first  tried  out.  But  the 
watch  hands  moved  slowly,  very  slowly. 

Kit  looked  at  him  with  anxious  eyes. 
There  were  lights  in  the  ship  now  but  the 
feeling  of  weightlessness  kept  a certain 
nagging  impulse  to  panic  always  very  close. 
Still,  Kit  had  been  so  much  more  fearful  for 
Rod  that  the  eerie  sensation  of  floating  in 
emptiness  could  almost  be  ignored^  now  that 
he  was  safe  on  board. 

“What’d  you  do,  Rod?”  she  asked. 

“I  think,”  said  Rod,  “that  I knocked  off  the 
looters  and  the  creatures  in  the  three  flying 
pyramids  we  saw.  I hope  so!  I even  think 
I did  it  with  one  of  their  own  weapons.  I 
hope  very  much  that  they  haven’t  any  defense 
against  it.  I can’t  imagine  one.” 

" Their  weapons ?”  Kit  said,  startled. 
“You  mean  you  think  you  made  the  same 
thing  they  used  to  kill  all  the  people  on  this 
planet  ?” 

“And  the  Martians,”  said  Rod  grimly, 
“and  probably  plenty  of  other  races  that  got 
civilized  enough  to  be  either  dangerous  or 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


worth  looting.  Remember,  you  suggested  that 
the  weapon  a space-ship  turned  on  us  might 
be  supersonic-sound  waves?” 

"Y-yes,”  said  Kit  uneasily. 

"It  couldn’t  have  been  exactly  sound- 
waves. Not  in  space.  There  was  no  air — 
or  any  solid  to  carry  them.  But  we  use  trac- 
tor beams  as  if  they  were  cables  to  pull 
things  and  pressors  as  if  they  were  beams 
to  push  things  with.  I figured  that  they  might 
have  made  a gadget  that  alternated  between 
sending  tractor  and  pressor  beams. 

“It  would  send  a thin  slice  of  tractor,  then 
a thin  slice  of  pressor  and  so  on.  That  would 
go  through  space  And  when  it  hit  some- 
thing solid  it  would  generate  sound  waves  in 
it.  If  the  slices  were  thin  enough  and  alter- 
nated fast  enough  they’d  make  supersonic 
waves — such  as  you  suggested — in  anything 
they  touched. 

"Air  would  vibrate  in  the  supersonic  range. 
So  would  water.  So  would  the  bodies  of 
any  living  creatures  such  a beam  struck.  It 
would  break  up  ceramic  ware  and  not  break 
plastic  or  metal.  Sent  from  one  space-ship 
to  another,  it  would  kill  all  the  crew  of  the 
ship  on  the  receiving  end.  Sent  from  a ship 
down  on  a city — ” 

Kit  turned  pale. 

“They  could — stay  out  in  space  and  send 
beams  down  at  a city  and  everybody’d  die! 
Oh,  Rod !” 

“Apparently  they  did  just  that,”  said  Rod. 
“Anyhow,  that’s  the  sort  of  gadget  I made. 
There  were  bus-bars  and  a monstrous  thing 
that  works  like  a vacuum-tube  in  the  build- 
ing where  we  saw  the  televisors. 

“Joe  and  I — Joe’s  the  electrician  who  was 
with  us — fixed  up  a pressor-beam  generator 
and  put  in  a feed-back  to  the  tensor-plate.  It 
starts  to  make  pressors,  the  feed-back  makes 
it  shift  to  tractors,  then  the  feed-back  makes 


35 

it  shift  back  to  pressors  and  so  on.  It’ll  gen- 
erate supersonic  frequencies  all  right ! Simple 
enough  too,”  he  added  grimly,  “once  I had 
the  idea.” 

“But—” 

“Power  for  it?  There  was  an  isotopic 
generator  in  the  building  with  the  televisors, 
too.  Probably  better  than  the  one  we  have 
on  the  ship  here.  But  I did  better  than  that. 
I knew  there  ought  to  be  a power-storage 
unit  in  the  booby-trap  pyramid  we  so  care- 
fully haven’t  touched. 

“I  cut  into  that  pyramid,  hooked  up  that 
power  to  the  gadget  Joe  and  I had  put  to- 
gether and  tied  a string  to  the  switch.  I 
focused  a tractor  to  pull  the  string  after  we’d 
come  into  this  space.  The  stuff  it  generated 
couldn’t  hurt  us  here.  Tractor  and  pressor 
stuff  would  have  to  be  focused  to  come  into 
this  universe  from  ours.” 

E MADE  an  unconscious  movement 
and  rather  absurdly  floated  away  from 
his  former  position.  There  was  no  gravity 
here.  There  was  always  the  sensation  of  in- 
terminable fall.  While  constantly  aware  of 
the  fact  that  it  was  weightlessness,  not  drop- 
ping, it  was  endurable  enough.  But  nobody 
would  ever  be  able  to  sleep  where  gravity 
was  not. 

“To  finish  the  picture,”  said  Rod  after  a 
moment,  “the  power-storage  unit  has  prob- 
ably some  hundreds  of  millions  of  kilowatts 
of  power  stored  in  it.  I don’t  know  just  how 
fast  it’ll  discharge  through  our  gadget  but 
there’s  a choke-effect  there  to  slow  it  up. 

“My  guess  and  my  hope  is  that  my  gadget 
generated  the  pyramid-folks  pet  murder- 
frequency  stuff  for  several  successive  minutes 
and  that  those  who  happened  to  be  around 
have  lost  all  interest  in  looting — and  in  us.” 

[Turn  page] 


AN  AMAZING  EPIC  OF  THE  ENDLESS  FUTURE! 


• 

FLIGHT  INTO 
YESTERDAY 

A Novel  of  Strange  Destiny 

By  CHARLES  L.  HARNESS 

• 

Featured  in  the  Next  Issue 


STARTLING  STORIES 


36 

“ If  it  hit  them,"  said  Kit. 

“It  did,”  he  assured  her.  “We  set  it  to 
radiate  in  all  directions.  The  faster  the 
juice  ran  out,  the  more  deadly  that  beam 
was.  I can’t  guess  it’s  maximum  range  but 
it  should  be  strong  enough  anywhere  on  this 
planet!” 

In  that  estimate  he  was  too  conservative. 
Actually  the  lethal  effect  of  his  device  had 
extended  rather  more  than  a planetary  di- 
ameter beyond  the  surface  on  the  far  side  of 
the  world.  It  had  lasted  for  six  or  seven 
minutes  and  it  had  wiped  out  all  pyramid- 
creatures  within  that  limit. 

Rod,  however,  was  uneasy.  His  experi- 
ence of  the  alien  race  was  not  enough  to  let 
him  know  their  resources,  and  he  could  not 
calibrate  or  measure  anything  he  used. 

At  the  moment  he  worried  mainly  over 
the  possibility  that  the  aliens  might  have 
some  defense  against  the  weapon  he  thought 
they  used  for  massacres.  But  he  knew,  too, 
that  the  danger  could  be  greater  than  that 
and  of  a quite  different  sort. 

As  a matter  of  safety  he  kept  the  Stellaris 
in  other-space  for  twelve  hours.  If  the 
aliens  had  a defense  against  his  weapon 
they’d  expect  the  Stellaris  to  reappear  im- 
mediately the  weapon  was  used.  But  if 
twelve  full  hours  elapsed  they  would  think 
the  human  ship  had  fled.  So  he  waited. 

But  time  passed  very  slowly  until  what 
might  be  termed  social  life  within  the  ship 
began.  The  four  girls  who’d  tended  the  air- 
purifier  system  had  been  classed  officially  as 
assistants  in  biology,  and  were  more  or  less 
inclined  to  feel  superior  to  mere  painters  and 
arc-welders  and  electricians.  Some  of  the 
men,  too,  were  middle-aged  and  obviously 
family  men. 

But  one  of  the  arc-welders  was  good- 
looking  and  one  of  the  painters  displayed 
virtuosity  on  the  mouth-organ.  Also  there 
was  some  food  aboard  ship  and  there  was  at 
- least  a precedent  for  expecting  to  set  foot 
again  on  a planet  with  breathable  air. 

Also  there  were  the  lurid  tales  of  riches 
and  jewels  and  incredible  luxury  in  the 
empty  cities  of  the  planet  to  which  they  were 
still  anchored.  So,  during  the  tedious  wait, 
barriers  broke.  Music  began  somewhere  off 
in  the  ship.  There  were  voices.  There  was 
even  laughter. 

Kit  went  to  see  while  Rod  sweatingly  tried 
to  make  calculations  and  draw  diagrams  on  a 
memo-pad  which  had  no  weight — and  while 
he  himself  floated  head-down  in  relation  to  a 


normal  position  in  the  control-room.  Kit 
drew  herself  lightly  along  the  hand-rails 
which  ran  on  floors  and  ceilings  and  side- 
walls  alike.  She  came  back  smiling,  floating 
with  extraordinary  grace  in  mid-air. 

“Rod!  You  ought  to  see!”  she  told  him. 
“One  of  the  painters  has  tied  himself  in 
place  with  string.  He’s  playing  the  mouth- 
organ  and  they’re  having  a dance ! It’s  like 
a Virginia  reel  in  three  dimensions!  Every- 
body’s got  pieces  of  cardboard  and  they’re 
using  them  like  wings  to  fan  themselves 
around  with  in  the  craziest  set-to  you  ever 
saw !” 

Uproarious  laughter  sounded  in  the  ship, 
which  floated  in  an  illimitable  emptiness 
of  darkness — in  a universe  in  which  no  living 
thing  could  dwell — alone  as  surely  no  human 
ship  was  ever  alone  before — in  a cosmos 
without  a single  star. 

Rod  said  restlessly,  “That’s  good.  Kit.  Go 
and  watch  if  you  like.  I’d  better  not.  Any- 
how, I’m  going  to  try  something.” 

There  was  reason  for  his  reserve.  He 
was,  perforce,  the  captain  of  the  Stellaris. 
As  such  he  could  join  in  difficult  labor  and 
should  share  in  any  danger.  But  he  must 
remain  remote  if  all  his  decisions  were  to  go 
unquestioned.  And  it  was  necessary  for  him 
to  make  the  decisions.  If  he  relaxed  to 
mere  sociable  behavior  his  leadership  would 
no  longer  be  based  upon  the  mystery  of 
commissioned  authority.  He  would  have  be- 
come merely  another  man. 

He  pulled  himself  to  the  engine-room. 
Restlessly  he  set  the  tractor-beams — those 
not  in  use  for  anchorage — to  fan  out  in  all 
directions  through  this  other-space.  Prac- 
tically nothing  was  known  as  yet  about  the 
dark  universe.  Light  traveled  faster  there 
and  inertia  was  less.  Incredible  speeds  were 
possible. 

SO  MUCH  was  known,  and  nothing  else. 

The  other-space  could  be  a mere  incal- 
culable emptiness,  without  the  most  minute 
particle  of  substance  anywhere  in  it.  Yet  in 
theory  a cosmos  without  mass  could  not 
exist.  A closed  universe  could  not  be  closed 
without  substance  to  make  the  gravitational 
warp  that  would  close  it.  So  there  must  be 
matter  of  some  sort. 

But  Rod  turned  on  the  tractor-beams  and 
fanned  them  out,  merely  to  be  doing  some- 
thing. The  odds  against  any  solid  object 
within  the  distance  the  tractor-beams  would 
cross  within  a few  hours — even  at  the  tre- 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


mendous  speed  of  radiation  here — were 
enormous. 

He  went  back  to  the  control-room,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  Kit  rested  lightly  in  a 
screwed-down  chair,  staring  at  nothing.  Her 
face  Was  utterly  dismal. 

“I — er — I put  on  the  tractor-beams  just  to 
see  if  there  could  be  anything  solid  around,” 
he  told  her,  pretending  not  to  see  her  ex- 
pression. 

She  did  not  answer. 

“I’m  hoping,”  he  said  awkwardly  after 
a moment,  “that  we’ve  wiped  out  those 
pyramid-makers  and  that  we’ll  be  able  to 
go  through  one  of  their  shins  and  pick  up 
some  of  their  stuff.  In  this  space  those 
projectors  of  theirs  that  shoot  beams  of  light 
should  be  handy.  I’d  like  to  know  what  kind 
of  drive  they  have — and  they’ve  got  a sort 
of  flame-pistol  that  could  be  useful.” 

Kit’s  lips  trembled.  A tear  appeared  at 
the  corner  of  her  eye  and  did  not  run  down 
her  cheek  because  there  was  no  gravity  to 
draw  it.  It  blurred  all  her  vision  and  she 
shook  her  head  to  clear  it.  The  tear-drop 
flew  off  into  the  air  as  a tiny  round  globule. 
She  gulped. 

Rod  said  helplessly,  “I  feel  like  a scoundrel. 
Kit.  I act  as  if  I didn’t  think  about  you  at 
all.” 

“You  don’t  think  of  me,”  said  Ktt.  “And 
— and  we’re  likely  to  be  killed  any  time 
and—” 

“If  you  looked  happy,”  said  Rod  dog- 
gedly, “as  if  we  were  being  romantic,  the 
four  other  girls  would  envy  you.  And  if 
romance  breaks  out  in  this  ship  it  will  be 
bad ! There  are  fen  men  and  only  five  girls. 
Right  now  it  doesn’t  look  as  if  we've  much 
chance  of  getting  back  and  if  ten  men  get 
romantic  over  five  girls — ” 

“S-some  of  the  men  are  m-married,”  said 
Kit. 

“It’ll  be  hard  for  them  to  bear  that  in 
mind  after  they  give  up  hope  of  getting  back 
home  and  know  they’re  some  thousands  of 
light-years  away.” 

Then  Rod  said  grimly,  “I  look  at  it  this 
way — we’re  in  the  position  of  people  who 
were  shipwrecked  in  the  olden  days.  But 
we’ve  no  hope  of  being  rescued.  No  friend- 
ly space-ship  will  ever  run  across  us!  So 
we’ve  got  to  load  up  with  food.  We’ve  got 
to  get  weapons.  We’ve  got  to  get  tools. 

“And  if  we  can’t  find  our  way  back  to 
Earth — the  chance  is  slim — we’ve  got  to  find 
a planet  these  space-murderers  aren’t  in- 


37 

terested  in,  one  that  we  can  settle  on.  We 
may  have  to  turn  ourselves  into  a colony  and 
spend  all  our  lives  somewhere  we  can’t  even 
guess  at  yet.  Right  now  we’ve  got  to  keep 
from  doing  anything  that  will  start  dissen- 
sion on  board.” 

"You  could  say  something  nice  once  in  a 
while,”  said  Kit  miserably. 

“If  I did,”  said  Rod,”  I wouldn’t  want  to 
stop  at  that.” 

The  ship  stirred — slightly  but  definitely. 

Rod  dived  for  the  corridor  to  the  engine- 
room.  The  movement  of  the  ship  could 
mean  but  one  thing.  The  tractor-beam  had 
touched  something  solid.  Even  hurtling 
through  the  air  he  glanced  at  his  watch.  The 
beam  had  been  on  for  fourteen  minutes. 
That  would  mean  a hundred  and  sixty  million 
miles  in  normal  space.  It  might  mean  ten 
or  twenty  or  a hundred  times  that,  here.  It 
might  mean  anything  or  nothing  whatever. 

He  reached  the  beam-projectors.  Again 
carefully  leaving  the  anchor-tractors  un- 
touched, Rod  cut  down  the  power  of  one 
after  another  of  the  rest.  Another  stirring. 
The  beam  which  had  struck  something  was 
identified.  He  put  pressors  in  parallel  and 
sent  them  out  to  cover  the  direction. 

It  was  again  fourteen  minutes  before  a 
pressor  hit  the  unseen  object  the  tractor 
tugged  at.  Rod  took  a deep  breath.  It  wasn’t 
coming  this  way,  then.  Not  fast  at  any 
rate. 

HE  SETTLED  down  to  finicky,  delicate 
manipulation.  It  was,  in  a way,  ri- 
diculous for  him  to  try  to  locate  and  focus  a 
beam  on  something  of  unknown  size — an 
unguessable  but  enormous  distance  away — 
when  it  was  somewhere  in  a fifteen-degree- 
square  arc  of  space. 

It  took  fourteen  minutes  to  discover 
whether  an  individual  beam  was  even  pointed 
in  the  right  direction.  But  he  had  a dozen 
beams  he  could  use,  adjusting  them  in  se- 
quence, and  he  could  shift  the  unfocused 
beams  to  find  when  they  slid  off  the  ob- 
ject. 

The  three-dimensional  dance  ended  when 
the  painter  ran  out  of  breath  with  which  to 
blow  the  harmonica.  An  impromptu  the- 
atrical performance  began.  There  was  a 
painter  who  fancied  himself  as  a tap-dancer. 
He  essayed  to  demonstrate.  With  no  weight 
to  hold  him  anywhere  his  antics,  were  un- 
predictable even  to  himself. 

The  spectators  held  fast  to  handrails  on 


38  STARTLING  STORIES 


walls  and  floor  and  ceiling.  The  girls  shrieked 
with  laughter.  The  men  howled.  Some- 
body essayed  to  juggle.  It  was  impossible. 
Nothing  came  back  to  his  hands.  The 
laughter  tended  to  grow  hysterical. 

It  was  a wholesome  enterprise  and  it  was 
all  very  well  as  long  as  they  could  remem- 
ber that  they  were  not  falling  into  endless 
nothingness.  These  antics  helped  them  to 
remember.  But  the  instant  that  thought 
ceased  to  hold  the  center  of  one’s  mind,  mus- 
cles tensed  in  panic,  eyes  widened  and 
breathing  became  difficult  because  one  was 
falling,  falling,  falling.  . . . 

It  was  long  hours  before  Rod  heard  the 
curious  crisp  noise  within  a pressor-coil 
which  told  that  it  was  locked.  It  was  focused 
upon  something  invisible  and  unspeakably 
remote  in  the  absolute  black  of  other-space. 
Rod  looked  at  the  beam-mounting.  He  made 
a tiny  mark.  After  half  an  hour,  there  was 
no  change  in  the  long-range  adjustment. 
Whatever  the  object  was,  it  had  no  great 
velocity  either  toward  or  away  from  the 
Stellaris. 

If  it  was  a — well — a heavenly  body,  a 
burned-out  sun  in  a universe  run  down,  it 
might  be  useful.  So  Rod  left  a beam  on  it, 
drawing  the  minimum  of  power.  He  went 
floating  along  the  corridor  to  the  control- 
room  and  there  Kit  looked  at  him  steadily,  a 
sheet  of  paper  in  her  hand.  She  no  longer 
looked  unhappy?” 

“Rod,”  she  said,  “do  you  remember  writ- 
ing this?”  v 

Rod  flushed.  He’d  written  her  a note  be- 
fore going  out  to  make  the  death-beam 
generator.  The  Stellaris  was  to  vanish  from 
the  planet’s  surface  while  he  worked — it  was 
to  hide  in  other-space  because  there  were 
alien  looters  on  the  unnamed  world. 

Pyramid-ships  might  come  to  this  city. 
They  might  beam  any  area  they  intended  to 
land  on,  as  a matter  of  routine  precaution.  If 
they  did  he  and  the  other  two  men  on  the 
planet’s  surface  would  die.  So  he’d  written  a 
note  for  Kit  to  find  in  case  he  didn’t  come 
back.  And  she’d  found  it. 

“I  didn’t  think  to  tear  that  up  when  I 
came  back,”  he  said  uncomfortably.  “Just — 
well — forget  it,  won’t  you  ?” 

“Hardly !”  said  Kit.  She  smiled  tremulous- 
ly. “If  you  really  feel  this  way  about  me, 
I want  to  remember  it.  I won’t  doubt,  any 
more!" 

She  smiled  at  him.  The  temptation  was  ir- 
resistible. But  the  electrician  named  Joe 


came  floating  into  the  control-room,  flapping 
two  large  sheets  of  cardboard  for  wings.  He 
braked  expertly  with  them  and  grinned. 

“If  I only  had  a harp,”  he  said,  beaming, 
“I’d  feel  like  an  angel  for  sure !” 

“I’m  gettting  set  to  go  back  and  see  what 
our  trick  did  to  those  looters  and  the  pyra- 
mid-ships,” Rod  told  him,  momentarily  con- 
fused. 

Joe  raised  his  eyebrows  and  made  no 
comment.  He  fanned  himself  to  a wall  and 
caught  hold  of  a hand-rail. 

“I’d  like  to  spring  an  idea,”  he  said. 

“Go  ahead!” 

“Suppose  we  fix  up  a conple  gizmos  like 
the  one  we  made  back  yonder  on  the  planet,” 
said  Joe.  “Then  we  could  put  up  a scrap  if 
one  of  them  pyramids  came  after  us.” 
“Providing  we  shot  first,”  said  Rod. 
“That’s  right,”  agreed  Joe.  “But  suppose 
we  tricked  the  circuit  so  the  tensor-plate 
was  choked?  So  when  we  turned  on  the 
juice  nothin’  happened?” 

Rod  waited,  frowning. 

“Then,”  said  Joe,  grinning,  “if  they  turned 
a beam  on  us,  our  feed-backs,  'ud  pick  it 
up  an’  uncork  our  beam  on  them ! They  start 
shootin’,  an’  automatic  we  shoot  back.” 
“Good  enough,”  admitted  Rod.  “Only  we’d 
still  die.  That  wouldn’t  kill  their  beams.  It 
would  just  kill  them.” 

“Then  tie  in  our  force-field  switch,”  said 
Joe  amiably.  “They  slap  a beam  on  us,  we 
shoot  back  an’  go  whammo  into  other-space. 
All  automatic ! A bear-trap.  I don’t  like  those 
guys!" 

“I  don’t  either,”  said  Rod.  He  reflected. 
“Mmmmmm.  You've  got  something  there.  I 
begin  to  like  it.  I wonder  if  they  have  it.” 
Joe  shrugged. 

“It’s  not  likely,  Rod,”  Kit  interposed. 
“They’ll  kill  off  other  civilizations  as  soon 
as  they  have  space-travel.  You  didn’t  arm 
your  first  ship  and  there  was  no  plan  to  arm 
the  Stellaris.  Nobody’d  be  set  to  fight  in 
their  first  space-ships. 

“The  pyramid-people  have  probably  never 
had  a real  fight  in  their  lives.  They  won’t 
be  looking  for  anybody  to  fight  back,  any 
more  than  a hunter  expects  a rabbit  to  let  go 
at  him  with  a blaster.” 

“Something  there  too,”  admitted  Rod. 
“But  they’re  probably  scary  at  that.  Most 
likely  they  started  this  murder  business  be- 
cause they  were  frightened  the  first  time  their 
ships  came  upon  another  race.  They  wiped 
that  race  out  because  it  scared  them.  Then 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


they  looted  its  cities  and  found  it  paid  off. 
Still,  if  they  think  that  way  . . 

A CHILLY  thought  came  to  him.  He  felt 
small  cold  prickles  running  up  and 
down  his  spine. 

“Right  now  we’ve  got  to  take  a chance  that 
we  hit  them  hard,”  he  said  grimly.  “Pass 
along  the  word  that  we’re  going  back  to 
normal  space  on  the  planet  we  found.  And 
Joe—” 

“Yeah?” 

“Go  down  in  the  engine-room.  I’ve  got  a 
little  pressor  locked  on  something  in  the 
dark  universe.  If  I throw  the  force-fields 
back  on,  you  put  power  into  that  pressor. 
Plenty  of  it!  We’ll  want  to  get  moving,  and 
fast !” 

Joe  grinned,  let  go  of  the  hand-rail  and 
flapped  blissfully  across  the  room.  He 
bounced  off  the  doorway  and  went  soaring 
toward  the  engines. 

Shoutings  went  through  the  ship.  There 
was  a roll-call,  so  that  the  sudden  return  of 
gravity  would  not  take  anyone  by  surprise. 
Then  Rod  threw  off  the  force-fields. 

Weight  came  back,  but  no  light  outside. 
Rod  blinked,  then  roared,  “Lights  out! 
Quick!”  It  was  night  outside  on  the  planet, 
and  the  lighted  ports  of  the  Stellaris  would 
show  for  miles. 

It  was  seconds  before  the  ship  was  dark 
again  but  nothing  happened. 

After  long  minutes  Rod  put  Kit’s  hand  on 
the  switch  that  would  send  the  Stellaris  back 
to  other-space.  Quietly — it  seemed  strange 
to  be  able  to  walk — he  went  to  the  air-lock. 
He  cracked  it  open-  There  was  no  sound 
anywhere.  He  stepped  out  into  the  night. 
The  air  was  chill  and  many  strange  stars 
shone  overhead.  It  was  altogether  eerie  to 
stand  in  such  strangeness  on  the  ways  of  a 
city  that  had  been  murdered,  on  a planet  that 
had  no  name,  in  the  weird  stillness  of  its 
night. 

But  night  had  not  long  fallen.  On  the 
horizon  there  was  still  a trace  of  luminosity. 
A single  wisp  of  cloud,  high  up,  glowed  faint- 
ly in  sunlight  from  below  the  horizon.  But 
overhead  the  sky  was  deep-blue.  Stars  twin- 
kled brightly. 

And  there  was  silence  to  crack  the  ear- 
drums. Perhaps  at  the  edge  of  the  city  where 
the  jungle  began,  boughs  and  branches  whis- 
pered in  a night-wind.  But  here  all  was 
stillness.  Everything  was  dead.  As  his  eyes 
adjusted  to  the  starlight  the  soaring,  grace- 


39 

ful  architecture  took  form  in  the  dimness. 

And  then  he  saw  one  of  the  pyramids  that 
had  been  floating  overhead  before  the  Stel- 
laris— its  improvisioned  weapon  radiating 
death — had  fled  into  the  other-space.  The 
pyramid  had  come  down  out  of  control. 

It  had  crashed  into  the  side  of  a cliff-like 
structure  and  tumbled  out  again.  It  lay 
askew  with  one  of  its  corners  still  caught  in 
the  gap  its  impact  had  made.  Rod  drew  a 
deep  breath  of  satisfaction.  The  weapon 
he’d  made  had  worked.  There  was  now  no 
living  alien  of  the  murderous  race  upon  this 
planet.  But — 

Something  made  him  raise  his  eyes.  Stars 
moved  overhead.  They  moved  visibly.  Tiny 
specks  of  yellow  incandescence  shifted  place 
among  the  many-colored  distant  suns-  One 
winked  out  completely.  Another  suddenly 
appeared. 

For  an  instant  Rod  thought  of  shooting 
stars — of  meteors.  But  meteors  do  not  move 
slowly.  These  things  did.  Especially,  meteors 
do  not  move  in  geometric  formation,  ar- 
ranged as  a slightly  skewed  triangle  which 
give  the  appearance  from  one  viewpoint  of 
a pyramid. 

The  specks  were  pyramid-ships — a space- 
fleet  of  the  killer-race ! There  were  literally 
hundreds  of  them  and  they  approached  the 
planet  on  which  Rod  stood.  The  flashes  of 
light  were  sunlight  reflected  from  their  pol- 
ished sides. 

Rod  went  cold  all  over.  But  it  was  ob- 
vious enough,  once  he  thought  about  it. 
The  aliens  who  put  up  a pyramid  on  Calypso 
had  the  mentality  of  people  who  install 
elaborate  burglar-alarms.  It  was  part  of  a 
pattern  of  thought. 

They  did  not  think  of  mercy,  so  they  would 
not  think  of  watchfulness.  Cold-bloodedness 
manifesting  itself  in  unwarned  race-murders 
implied  a whole  psychology.  And  a suspicion 
that  had  come  to  Rod  no  more  than  half  an 
hour  since  was  verified. 

The  aliens  plainly  took  no  chances.  As 
they  did  not  imagine  friendly  commerce — 
implying  loyalty — between  different  races, 
they  did  not  imagine  loyalty  or  courage  in 
their  own.  So  a pyramid-ship  was  not 
trusted  to  meet  and  report  upon  emergencies. 

As  a power-storage  unit  and  a transmitter 
was  built  into  the  traps  they  set  for  other 
civilizations,  so  similar  devices  were  built 
into  their  ships.  In  the  unthinkable  event 
that  one  of  their  crews  was  wiped  out  by 
a race  unknown  to  them  the  crew  was  not 


STARTLING  STORIES 


40 

depended  on  to  report  with  their  last  trace 
of  strength. 

When  the  stick-like  creatures  in  a pyramid- 
ship  died  the  ship  itself  sent  out  a death- 
cry  of  radiation  which  could  travel  across 
half  a galaxy.  Perhaps  there  were  relays  to 
receive  and  transmit  communications  faster 
than  the  speed  of  light.  When  a ship  was 
destroyed,  a monstrous,  overwhelming  fleet 
could  be  sent  instantly  to  avenge  and  destroy. 

The  winking  specks  of  light  moved  on. 
Probably  they  would  englobe  the  planet  on 
which  the  looting-party  had  been  destroyed. 
They  might  blast  the  planet  itself  out  of 
existence-  Or  perhaps — 

Rod  ground  his  teeth.  He’d  made  a mis- 
take. He’d  lost  precious  hours  out  of  exag- 
gerated caution.  But  he  would  not  make 
that  mistake  again. 

He  went  back  into  the  ship  to  give  crisp 
and  savage  orders. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Enemy 


THERE  was  no  alarm  but  the  suspense 
itself  was  hair-raising.  Joe  the  electri- 
cian and  an  arc-welder  with  a torch  cut 
loose  the  generator  of  the  deadly  tractor- 
pressor  radiation.  Already  there  was  a ten- 
dency to  call  it  “the  push-pull  beam”  in- 
stead of  tractor-pressor  or  supersonic  radia- 
tion. 

While  they  did  so  Rod  and  two  others  as- 
sailed the  fallen  and  apparently  helpless 
pyramid-ship.  They  cut  into  its  air-lock 
door — and  gagged  at  the  smell  within-  It  was 
a living-thing  smell. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  personal  smell  of  the 
aliens.  It  was  indescribable  and  revolting. 
In  all  probability  the  aliens  themselves  were 
unconscious  of  it,  as  humans  are  unaware  of 
the  human  smell  which  is  so  comforting  to  a 
dog.  But  this  reek  filled  men  with  rage. 

They  went  through  the  monstrous  ship, 
hand-flashes  flickering  here  and  there.  They 
were  armed  with  nothing  more  deadly  than 
spanners  but  they  looked  fiercely  to  see  if 
anything  remained  alive.  They  ignored  ma- 
chinery and  weapons  and  technical  devices, 
seeking  only  dangerous  life.  They  found 
none  though  there  were  many  bodies. 
They  clambered  out  again  and  found  the 


vehicle  they’d  used  as  a beam -mount  and 
trundled  it  to  the  Stellaris’  air-lock  door. 
They  helped  heave  off  the  block  of  plastic 
which  acted  as  a giant  vacuum  tube. 

Joe  the  electrician  observed  casually, 
“Say!  When  we  were  fussin’  around  that 
pyramid  we  musta  stepped  on  somethin’. 
Their  little  booby-trap  got  all  hotted  up  and 
melted  itself  down.  Okay?” 

“Very  much  so,”  Rod  told  him.  “They’ll 
think  somebody  opened  it,  or  maybe  that  it 
went  off  of  itself.  But  they  won’t  see  where 
we  cut  it  open.  It  should  puzzle  them  a bit. 
Come  along!” 

With  two  others  he  set  the  little  vehicle 
off  at  top  speed  through  the  dead  city’s 
streets.  His  spine  was  literally  crawling 
with  apprehension  but  he  went  on  grimly. 
If  the  newly-come  fleet  simply  surrounded 
the  planet  and  at  a signal  blasted  it  with 
the  deadly  push-pull  radiation,  every  square 
inch  of  the  planet’s  surface  would  become 
death  itself.  Nothing  could  live.  It  could 
happen  at  any  instant.  And  there  was  no 
conceivable  defense  against  it. 

But  he’d  lost  twelve  hours,  waiting  in 
other-space  out  of  apprehension,  overesti- 
mating the  pyramid-ships’  means  of  defense. 
Now  he  knew  that  a race  so  careful  of  its 
own  life  that  it  practised  murder  as  a trade 
would  be  a very  fearful  one.  It  was  likely 
to  overestimate  the  enemy  that  had  struck 
at  it. 

Instead  of  a manned  ship  it  would  probably 
send  a robot — a drone — to  investigate  the 
weapons  used  against  its  vanquished  ships. 
If  the  drone  itself  were  destroyed  the  fleet 
would  withdraw  until  some  counter  to  the 
new  weapon  could  be  devised. 

But  Rod  had  no  new  weapon.  He  had 
only — he  believed — the  instrument  by  which 
the  aliens  did  their  murders.  Even  that 
needed  to  be  powered  by  apparatus  of  their 
construction.  He  could  not  destroy  any- 
thing now.  So  the  aliens  would  find  nothing 
in  particular  to  alarm  them,  though  it  would 
be  some  time  before  they  felt  safe  in  landing. 

Still,  they  could  be  examining  the  surface 
of  the  planet  with  telescopes — perhaps  elec- 
tron-telescopes— and  they  might  detect  the 
Stellaris.  On  the  other  hand  they’d  have 
to  use  infra-red  on  the  night  side  of  the 
planet  and  infra-red  does  not  give  good 
definition.  The  ship  and  its  tiny  landing- 
party  might — might ! — be  safe  until  more 
light  came  with  the  dawn. 

He  had  to  risk  it.  He  drove  to  the  power- 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


station.  The  four  men  cut  free  the  isotopic 
dynamo  and  manhandled  it  to  the  vehicle. 
They  loaded  up  four  television-machines. 
They  went  racing  back.  The  other  load 
had  been  carried  in  through  the  air-lock. 
Now  this  load  was  put  on  board  the  Stellaris. 

“I’d  like  to  have  more  food,”  said  Rod, 
“but  we  can  go  on  short  rations  for  awhile. 
All  right?  Seal  her  up!” 

He  took  post  in  the  control-room.  Joe 
had  connected  up  more  switches,  but  there 
were  still  no  instruments.  He  released  the 
anchoring  tractor-beams  and  pushed  the 
ship  up  on  pressors.  He  maneuvered  above 
the  tumbled  pyramid-ship.  He  sent  down 
tractors  and  locked  them. 

The  Stellaris  sank  as  the  strain  came 
on,  but  he  fed  more  power  to  the  pressor- 
beams  which  held  up  the  earth-ship  on  un- 
substantial stilt-like  legs.  Presently  the  pyra- 
mid-ship stirred  and  floated  free.  Then  Rod 
maneuvered  it  very  gently  up  against  the 
Stellaris’  bottom-plates  and  pushed  up  to 
five  thousand  feet. 

FOR  long  minutes  the  ship  hung  there, 
swaying  and  oscillating  with  a soggy, 
burdened  motion.  But  Rod  had  more  con- 
trols to  set  by  hand,  since  the  ship  was  not 
one-tenth  wired  for  navigation.  There  had 
to  be  tractors — unfocused — set  to  overlap  in 
a globe  all  around.  The  force-field  gener- 
ators had  to  have  certain  constants  changed. 

That  was  really  the  ticklish  part.  Rod 
had  designed  the  generators  but  he  sweated 
as  he  worked.  And  as  the  crucial  instant 
drew  near  he  felt  a despairing  certainty 
that,  from  somewhere  in  the  star-studded 
vault  overhead,  a death-beam  would  strike 
down  just  before  he  took  his  final  action. 
But  it  didn’t. 

When  he  raced  to  the  control-room  and 
glanced  opt  the  ports  he  saw  a shimmering, 
faintly  luminous  horizon  all  about  and  many 
stars  above.  He  saw  far-distant  darkness, 
which  was  this  world’s  jungle,  and  at  one 
place  a sea. 

But  directly  under  the  Stellaris  a huge  flat 
plate  of  polished  metal  shut  off  all  sight  of 
the  ground.  It  was  the  pyramid-ship.  Rod 
threw  the  master  tractor-switch  and,  as  the 
ship  lurched  violently,  he  threw  the  force- 
field  switch  hard  over. 

It  was  all  familiar,  now.  There  was  only 
blackness  outside  and  there  was  no  weight 
whatever,  but  there  were  new  strange  grind- 
ing noises.  They  were  against  the  earth- 


41 

ship’s  hull.  They  were  rhythmic  and  reverber- 
ating. 

“We  made  it,”  Rod  told  Kit,  swallowing. 
“I  was  almost  sure  we  wouldn’t  have  time.” 
Kit  held  fast  to  a hand-rail  to  keep  from 
floating  free.  “What’s  that  grinding?” 
“That’s  our  friend,  the  enemy,”  he  said. 
“The  force-field  generators  were  intended 
only  to  drop  the  Stellaris  into  other-space 
but  I designed  them  so  they  could  be  changed. 
And  I just  changed  them. 

“I  had  them  spread  out  to  make  a spherical 
field  a half-mile  across — well  beyond  our 
hull.  So  when  they  went  on,  they  dropped 
the  pyramid-ship  and  everything  else  within 
a quarter-mile  into  other-space  with  us.” 

Kit  frowned  bewilderedly. 

“But  can  we  do  anything  with  it?”  she 
asked.  “There’s  no  air  outside  and  we’ve 
certainly  nothing  like  a space-suit.” 

Rod  grinned  a little,  as  he  wiped  sweat 
off  his  forehead.  “We  brought  air  with  us.” 
Joe  the  electrician  came  floating  seraphical- 
ly  into  the  control-room. 

“Near  as  I can  figure,”  he  reported,  "we 
got  five-six  hundred  feet  of  extension  cable 
we  can  hook  together  to  get  light  in  that 
ship  those  critters  ain’t  usin’  any  longer.” 
“But — ” Kit  grew  more  uneasy. 

"We  brought  a half-mile  sphere  of  air 
with  us,”  Rod  repeated.  “And  we’ve  got 
tractors  pulling  in  every  direction.  They  act 
the  same  as  gravity.  There’s  a vacuum  out- 
side, of  course,  but  there’s  a vacuum  out- 
side of  every  planet. 

“Gravity  holds  air  to  the  planets.  Trac- 
tors are  holding  air  to  us.  We  can  walk 
around  on  the  outside  of  the  ship  if  we  want 
to.  We  couldn’t  even  fall  off!  The  tractors 
would  pull  us  back,  as  they  pull  back  the  air.” 
With  Joe  he  went  to  the  air-lock.  He 
cracked  the  door.  No  hiss  of  escaping  air 
followed.  He  opened  it  wider.  There  was 
air  outside.  The  Stellaris  and  its  captive 
were  in  effect  a miniature  planet,  holding  an 
atmosphere  against  the  emptiness  of  space 
by  means  of  tractor-beams. 

“But  we’ve  got  to  work  fast,”  Rod  said 
grimly.  “I  wish  we  had  warm  clothes.  This 
air  will  be  losing  heat  to  space  and  there’s 
no  sun  to  put  it  back.  We’ll  be  lucky  to 
have  an  hour.  Let’s  go!” 

Carrying  a line,  with  Joe  uncoiling  flex- 
ible light-extension  wire  behind  him,  Rod 
stepped  out  of  the  lock.  A huge,  glaring 
bulb  glowed  on  the  end  of  the  wire.  The 
tractors  held  them  fast  against  the  Stellaris’ 


STARTLING  STORIES 


42 

outer  skin.  There  was  the  one  fierce  elec- 
tric-light in  an  entire  dark  universe. 

ONE  tiny  spot  of  illumination  in  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  light-years — 
it  showed  the  brightly-polished  flat  plating 
of  the  alien  ship.  A painter  poked  his  head 
out  of  the  air-lock  and  shivered,  then  ginger- 
ly followed.  An  arc-welder  came  too,  car- 
rying the  tools  of  his  trade. 

They  cut  through  the  skin  of  the  other 
ship,  since  the  air-lock  was  no  longer  con- 
venient. They  pulled  away  masses  of  insula- 
tion. They  cut  through  another  skin.  The 
repugnant  reek  of  the  pyramid-people  filled 
their  nostrils. 

“We’ll  try  to  turn  on  their  lights,”  ob- 
served Rod.”  They  must’ve  had  them!  And 
then  we  start  to  loot  the  looters.  Joe  and 
I will  hunt  for  technical  stuff.  The  rest  of 
you  send  back  tools,  anything  that  looks 
like  books  on  fabrics — anything  that  could 
be  interesting  or  useful.  And  work  fast !” 
Joe  strung  lights  and  hunted  for  a way  to 
turn  on  the  obvious  sources  of  illumination 
in  the  first  compartment  they  had  reached. 
The  lights  remained  obstinately  off.  Joe  cut 
one  loose  and  turned  it  over  to  be  sent  back 
to  the  Stellaris.  Rod  went  on  to  more  im- 
portant matters. 

The  ship  was  amazing — not  because  of 
its  development  but  because  of  its  crudity. 
Its  pyramidal  form  had  doubtless  been  chosen 
long  since  because  of  its  rigidity  and  because 
reflecting  surfaces  at  specific  angles  had  ad- 
vantages when  it  was  desired  to  go — say — 
near  a sun. 

But  the  ship  was  not  the  work  of  a really 
civilized  race.  There  was  no  trace  of  artistry 
anywhere — not  even  the  clean  smooth  lines  of 
purely  functional  design.  This  ship  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  designed  by  a construction 
man  who  thought  only  of  how  to  put  it  to- 
gether. Everything  else  had  been  ignored. 

It  was  a job  that  ignorant  or  unskilled 
labor  could  assemble  and  there  was  no  par- 
ticular thought  for  the  comfort  of  its  crew 
or  the  psychological  effect  of  good  design. 
The  dead  members  of  the  crew  were  not  pre- 
possessing. Their  faces  were  almost  without 
features  and  were  wholly  without  expres- 
sion. They  seemed  fit  occupants  of  a vessel 
designed  for  strict  utility  and  nothing  else. 

Rod  gained  an  increasingly  strong  impres- 
sion that  this  was  a case  of  a barbarous  race 
suddenly  acquiring  a weapon  they  were  not 
prepared  to  use  except  as  barbarians.  It  ap- 


peared that  just  as  mathematics  was  thou- 
sands of  years  ahead  of  technology  in  an- 
cient Greece,  this  race  had  suddenly  devel- 
oped a specific  technology  thousands  of  years 
ahead  of  every  other  part  of  their  civiliza- 
tion. 

Used  as  they  had  used  it,  such  an  ad- 
vantage would  almost  or  quite  stop  progress 
in  every  other  line.  They  would  not  develop 
a civilization  of  their  own  as  long  as  they 
looted  other  civilizations. 

He  looked  at  the  ship’s  weapons.  He  found 
only  the  push-pull  beam  and  he’d  designed  it 
better  than  they  had.  The  engine-room  was 
absurdly  simple  and  utterly  cryptic  but  even 
there  he  saw  clumsiness  in  such  items  as  the 
grouping  of  bus-bars. 

The  source  of  power,  though,  did  baffle 
him.  All  bus-bars  ran  from  a triple  plate  of 
glass  or  plastic  which  had  two  metal  plates 
between  its  leaves.  It  looked  like  a primitive 
condenser  but  apparently  it  supplied  all  the 
power  that  was  used  in  the  ship. 

IT  was  dead,  now.  There  was  no  poten- 
tial across  it  but  there  could  be  no  other 
reading  of  its  function  than  that  of  power- 
supply.  Cryptic  as  it  was  Rod  had  it  cut 
loose  and  sent  it  to  the  Stellaris. 

The  drive  was  equally  crude  and  equally 
improbable,  until  he  looked  at  it  twice.  Then 
he  held  his  head.  It  was  simply  a pressor- 
beam  fined  down  to  a needle-point  and  aimed 
at  an  infinitesimal  hole  in  a metal  plate. 

The  pressor-beam  would  exert  a pressure 
of  hundreds  or  thousands  of  tons  upon  the 
center  of  an  opening  only  thousandths  of 
an  inch  in  diameter.  There  was  a not  par- 
ticularly good  gas-flow  regulator  which  gov- 
erned the  flow  of  a tiny  trickle  of  gas  to  the 
opening. 

“My  sainted  aunt!”  said  Rod  bitterly. 
“Look  at  it!  We  could  have  had  space- 
travel  this  past  fifty  years!  Interplanetary 
travel,  at  any  rate ! They  let  gas  flow  to  this 
pin-hole  and  push  it  through  with  a pressor- 
beam  ! It’s  a pressor-beam  rocket ! 

“Millions  or  billions  of  tons  to  the  square 
inch  pressure  on  the  escaping  gas!  They’ll 
get  jet-velocities  close  to  light-speed!  Get 
this  to  the  Stellaris,  Joe.  We’ll  use  it,  though 
I’m  going  to  be  ashamed.  But  they  get  more 
than  light-speed  in  their  ships,  Joe ! How’d 
they  do  that?” 

He  went  prowling.  He  found  the  self- 
acting signal-device  which  sent  a thunderous 
message  of  despair  when  the  ship  went  out 


43 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


of  action.  Simple  enough,  save  for  the  ap- 
paratus which  used  up  the  energy.  He  could 
not  guess  at  the  type  of  radiation  which  was 
produced.  But  nine-tenths  of  the  things  he 
saw  were  behind  comparable  human  devices. 

Men  could  do  much  better  with  every  con- 
trivance he  understood  and  he  suspected  they 
could  do  better  with  the  rest.  This  race  had 
been  enough  ahead  of  the  races  it  had  mur- 
dered never  to  have  to  extend  itself.  So  there 
was  a flavor  to  the  entire  culture.  It  was 
barbarous  and  unpleasant  and  crude  and  re- 
volting. It  figuratively  stank  as  its  pos- 
sessions did  literally. 

Joe  the  electrician  tried  to  draw  his  atten- 
tion. He  waved  him  away.  Other  men  spoke 
to  him  and  he  paid  no  heed.  He  searched 
feverishly. 

The  light-guns  were  simple.  Men  could 
make  them.  He  found  something  that  was 
obviously  a type  of  radar.  There  was  a 
vision-screen  of  sorts.  But  he  hunted  des- 
perately and  in  vain  for  star-maps  and  for 
navigation-instruments. 

The  nearest  thing  he  found  to  them  was  a 
chest  from  which  a fierce  heat  still  poured 
and  which  was  a chaos  of  melted  and 
churned-up  metal  and  charred  stuff  like 
paper.  Nothing  could  be  made  of  it.  It 
might  be — it  could  be — that  all  star-maps  and 
navigational  data  was  automatically  de- 
stroyed when  the  signal  of  despair  was  sent 
off  by  a shattered  ship.  If  so,  it  was  still 
more  proof  of  the  murderer-psychology  of 
the  race. 

Then  Kit  shook  his  elbow  insistently.  Her 
face  was  white  and  pinched. 

“You’ve  been  here  two  hours,  Rod!  It’s 
cold ! The  moisture’s  all  frozen  out  of  the 
air  outside  the  ship.  The  tractors  pulled  it 
down  as  snow!  Now  the  air’s  lost  so  much 
heat  it’s  apt  to  freeze  too!” 

Rod  said  harshly.  “You  should  have  stayed 
on  the  Stellaris!  Why’d  you  come?” 

“You  wouldn’t  listen  to  anybody  else!” 
said  Kit  desperately.  “They  said  you  pushed 
them  away  and  kept  on  hunting  like  a crazy 
man!  When  the  air  freezes  you  can’t  live!” 

He  stared  at  her.  Her  breath  was  a white 
steam.  She  shivered  violently.  There  was 
already  a thin  layer  of  frost  on  her  clothes. 

“AH  right,”  he  said  sullenly,”  but  I want 
to  know — ” 

Angrily — angry  at  his  own  incomprehen- 
sion— he  led  her  back  to  the  opening  in  the 
pyramid-ship.  There  was  every  seeming  of 
gravity  here,  created  by  the  tractors  which 


held  an  atmosphere. 

Rod  stepped  out  on  the  Stellaris’  skin  and 
there  were  feet  of  feathery  snow  on  it.  It 
was  unbelievably  cold.  There  was  no  heat 
in  the  dark  universe  and  its  emptiness  sucked 
greedily  at  heat  in  objects  from  a living  cos- 
mos. 

Joe  stamped  and  chattered  in  the  air-lock. 
When  Rod  handed  Kit  in  he  cut  the  cable 
that  had  furnished  light  in  the  alien  ship. 

“W-we  got  more  cable  from  them,”  he 
gasped,  “an’  we  got  to  close  this  lock ! I’m 
glad  I ain’t  a brass  monkey  or  this  cold’d 
ha’  done  me  dirt!” 

The  outer  airlock  door  closed.  The  inner 
one  opened.  There  was  warmth  and  light, 
and  a slight  pervading  taint  in  the  air  from 
the  objects  the  aliens  had  owned. 


CHAPTER  IX 
War  Basis 


FIVE  minutes  later  Rod  grimly  cut  off 
the  tractors  which  had  held  an  atmos- 
phere in  mid-space  and  an  enemy  space-ship 
with  it.  He  found  sardonic  amusement  in 
picturing  the  effect  of  that  gesture  upon  the 
pyramid-folk. 

The  Stellaris  still  had  a beam  locked  on  the 
planet  of  the  dead  cities.  Its  power  was  low, 
but  she  would  not  be  too  many  millions  of 
miles  away  if  she  went  back  to  normal  space 
now.  And  the  air  she’d  brought  into  the 
dark  universe  would  return  to  normal  space 
immediately  it  expanded  beyond  the  force- 
fields. 

There  would  be  a sudden,  violent,  astound- 
ing irruption  of  vapor  in  emptiness,  some- 
where in  sight  of  the  planet.  And  a comet’s 
tail  can  contain  no  more  than  a mere  few 
cubic  inches  of  gas,  which  yet  is  expanded 
and  ionized  and  visible  as  a trail  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  miles. 

A half-mile  sphere  of  air,  expanded  sud- 
denly, should  make  such  a sight  as  the  stick- 
men  had  never  seen  before.  It  should  fill  them 
with  enormous  apprehension,  simply  because 
of  its  strangeness  and  because  it  followed 
closely  on  the  destruction  of  at  least  three 
of  their  ships. 

If  they  investigated  and  found  the  gut- 
ted pyramid-ship,  which  should  go  back  to 
a star-filled  cosmos  somewhere  near  the  air- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


44 

cloud,  they  should  be  more  uneasy  still.  Be- 
cause they’d  find  their  ship  looted  only  of 
sample  objects  rather  than  of  all  its  contents, 
and  they’d  realized  that  it  had  been  flung  con- 
temptuously away  as  worthless. 

But  there  was  that  loot  to  examine.  It 
was  more  than  ever  unfortunate  that  the 
Stellaris  had  no  gravity.  The  booty  floated 
about  irritatingly  and  those  who  tried  to  ex- 
plore its  possibilities  floated  too. 

The  primitive-seeming  condenser  remained 
inscrutable,  though  its  power-leads  had  sure- 
ly carried  an  enormous  load.  The  sample 
light,  however,  glowed  brightly  when  con- 
nected to  the  Stellaris’  power-lines.  But  Rod 
was  scornful. 

“Mercury- vapor,”  he  said  contemptuous- 
ly, “with  a phosphor  in  the  tube  around  itl 
We  stopped  using  that  sort  of  thing  fifty 
years  ago!” 

The  drive  was  again  irritating.  To  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  it  was  a rocket  with  a 
jet-speed  astronomically  high  because  a pres- 
sor-beam was  used  on  it.  The  light-guns 
could  have  been  made  on  earth.  The  radar 
set  had  elements  of  novelty  but  Joe  and  Rod 
agreed  that  men  made  better  ones.  The 
vision-screen  was  not  nearly  as  good  as  the 
ones  in  the  dead  city.  Rod  pushed  himself 
away  from  all  of  them. 

“They  had  a drive  and  a push-pull  beam, 
both  of  which  were  quite  within  our  reach,” 
Ire  said  sourly.  “Their  power-supply  is  over 
my  head  and  undoubtedly  they  had  some 
trick  for  faster-than-light  travel.  But  that’s 
all ! In  two  months  we  could  wipe  them  out, 
given  this  stuff  back  on  Earth!  Since  we 
can’t  get  back  to  Earth  we’ve  got  to  do  what 
we  can  right  here !” 

The  other  things  taken  from  the  ship, 
being  non-technical,  seemed  less  important. 
But  there  were  bales  of  soft,  lustrous  fabric, 
which  the  girls  of  the  air-plant  oh’d  and 
ah’d  over.  There  were  chests  of  prismatically 
glistening  ware  of  unfamiliar  shape — house- 
hold luxuries  of  some  sort  and  possibly  ta- 
bleware. 

There  were  jewels.  There  were  art-ob- 
jects portraying  flowers  of  exquisite  delicacy 
and  people — at  least,  they  wore  garments — 
which  were  neither  the  people  of  the  planet 
of  the  yellow  sun  nor  pyramid-folk  nor  any 
other  known  race. 

“Those  fiends  didn’t  make  this  stuff,”  said 
Rod  grimly.  “This  must  come  from  the  cities 
of  some  other  poor  devils  they’ve  wiped 
out  1" 


The  faint  taint  of  alien  smell  made  his 
hackles  tend  to  rise.  There  could  never  have 
been  friendship  between  human  beings  and 
the  people  of  the  pyramid  race  under  the  hap- 
piest of  auspices.  This  smell  made  enmity 
inevitable. 

“We’ll  get  to  work,”  said  Rod  distaste- 
fully. “I  hate  to  use  a trick  of  theirs — but 
we  need  that  drive.” 

Groping  with  tractor  and  pressor-beams 
was  not  the  most  efficient  form  of  space- 
travel,  so  the  alien  drive  was  to  be  installed. 
It  was  simple  enough  to  float  it  to  a stern- 
ward position  and  weld  it  in  place. 

It  needed  a tiny  Opening  for  the  ejected 
gas-particles  to  escape  from  but  their  speed 
would  be  so  great  that  they’d  bore  their 
own  exit.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  weld  braces 
and  a mounting  to  take  up  its  thrust.  Rod 
left  two  welders  swearing  at  the  difficulty 
of  working  when  they  had  no  weight. 

KIT  smiled  at  him  wrily.  “Somebody 
has  to  take  care  of  you,”  she  said 
defensively  when  she  saw  him  frowning. 
“And  you’d  have  stayed  there  until  you 
froze!  I had  to  come  after  you!” 
“Thanks,”  he  said  heavily.  “I’m  just 
worried  because  there  was  some  stuff  on 
that  ship  I didn’t  get.  Most  of  their  gadgets 
were  primitive  and  we  can  do  much  better. 
But—” 

“Did  you  find  out  how  they  got  their  ar- 
tificial gravity  ?”  she  asked  hopefully.  “I  get 
awfully  tired  of  just  floating.” 

“They  didn’t  have  gravity,”  he  protested. 
“But  I could  walk  in  that  ship,”  she  in- 
sisted. “I  did!” 

“That  was  our — ” Rod  groaned.  “I’m 
stupid!  I'll  be  back!” 

He  went  to  the  engine-room.  He  pulled 
Joe  off  the  drive-installation  and  together 
they  set  up  a tractor  in  the  extreme  stern- 
most  compartment  of  the  ship.  They  widened 
out  its  beam.  In  less  than  twenty  minutes 
objects  and  persons  within  the  Stellaris  be- 
gan to  settle  gently  toward  the  stem. 

Thirty  seconds  later  they  had  perceptible 
weight  and  after  a minute  weight  was  prac- 
tically normal  everywhere  in  the  ship.  Rod 
climbed  then — though  the  ship  was  in  other- 
space — back  to  face  Kit  in  the  control-room. 

“We  could  have  had  gravity  all  along,” 
he  told  her  ruefully.  “I  only  had  to  put  a 
tractor  in  the  ship’s  tail  to  pull  us  all  toward 
it.  Joe’s  setting  up  a pressor  in  the  bow  to 
neutralize  it  outside.  So  we’ve  got  gravity. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


Now  what?” 

"Nothing,”  said  Kit  wistfully,  "except  that 
it  would  be  nice  to  stop  worrying  and  think 
about  ourselves  sometimes.” 

"I  believe,”  Rod  told  her,  “there’s  an 
outside  chance  even  of  that!” 

He  inspected  the  small  tractor  locked  on 
the  planet  of  dead  cities.  Locked  as  it  was, 
its  mount  adjusted  its  focus  to  allow  for 
varying  distance  and  it  was  possible  to  esti- 
mate the  distance  from  the  planet  to  the 
spot  at  which  the  Stellaris  would  return  to 
normal  space.  It  was  too  close.  He  put  pow- 
er on  the  pressor.  Joe  came  in,  uncoiling 
a power-lead. 

“The  jet  drive,”  he  said  crisply.  "You  got 
a switch  you  ain’t  usin’?”  He  connected  the 
cable  and  scrupulously  labeled  the  switch. 

“Joe,”  said  Rod.  “Remember  your  idea 
of  a push-pull  beam  that  would  shoot  back 
if  we  were  beamed  ? Listen  1” 

He  spoke  carefully.  Joe  grinned. 

“Sure!  I’ll  fix  it.  Too  bad  we  ain’t  got 
more  stuff  to  work  with.” 

“You  might  use  that  isotopic  generator 
we  got  from  the  city,”  Rod  suggested.  “We 
can  hardly  run  a cable  out.” 

“Mmmm,”  said  Joe.  "It’d  be  a kinda  good 
idea  to  try  out  that  power-gadget  from  the 
pyramid.  I got  an  idea  about  that.  There’s 
nothin’  there  to  supply  power.  Nothin’s  used 
up.  Nothin’  breakin’  down.  Nothin’  to  hap- 
pen. But  it  gave  ’em  power — in  regular 
space.  ” 

“It’s  dead  now.”  Then  Rod  stopped  “You 
think  it  could  be  a trick  receiver  .of  power 
from  somewhere?” 

"That’s  my  bunch,”  said  Joe.  "Maybe 
they  got  broadcast  power.” 

“Galaxy- wide?”  demanded  Rod  skeptical- 
ly. "How?” 

"You  guess,”  said  Joe,  grinning.  "I  bet 


45 

it’s  a simple  trick,  though — like  their  drive.” 
He  nodded  and  went  back  toward  the  en- 
gine-room. Rod  looked  at  his  watch.  There 
was  gravity  on  the  ship  now  and  they  had  at 
least  twice  the  power  they’d  started  out  with. 
They  knew  how  to  make  weapons  at  least 
equal  to  any  the  alien  pyramid-folk  possessed. 
He  remembered  the  pencil-beam  of  heat  the 
looters  had  used  to  cut  out  a wall  in  the 
dead  city.  He’d  have  to  look  into  that  too. 
Joe  was  busy.  His  job  would  take  time. 

ROD  hunted  in  the  loot  for  a pencil-beam 
gun  and  found  one.  On  the  way  back 
he  stopped  to  watch  Joe  at  work  on  the  auto- 
matic push-pull  weapon.  Joe  had  only  such 
tools  as  had  been  on  the  ship  during  its  con- 
struction but  he  was  doing  a good  job.  Rod 
watched  approvingly. 

“Joe,”  he  said  after  a moment,”  if  you 
sliced  that  tensor-plate  into  segments  and 
fixed  the  feedback  so — ” 

He  illustrated. 

“If  you  do  that,”  Rod  finished,  “it  will 
shoot  back  only  in  the  direction  from  which 
it’s  shot  at.  All  the  power’ll  go  into  a rela- 
tively narrow  beam.”  Then  another  idea 
struck  him. 

“My  sainted  aunt!  Better  than  that,  Joe, 
set  the  feed-back  like  this!  There’s  no  pull 
on  a tractor  until  it  hits  something.  When 
there’s  a tractor  going  out  from  every  seg- 
ment— better  put  a commutator  on  and  run 
through  them  in  turn — when  there’s  a tractor 
going  out  and  it  hits  something,  that  will  turn 
on  the  push-pull  beam ! Full-power  too !” 
Joe  grunted.  He  looked  at  Rod  with  a 
wry  expression. 

“It’s  a bright  idea  all  right.  We’re  turn- 
in’ the  old  Stellaris  into  a warship,  sure 
enough.  But  we  won’t  be  good  company 

[Turn  page] 


ANTON  YORK  DISCOVERS  THE  SECRET  OF  IMMORTALITY 


IN 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  LIFE 

An  Astonishing  Complete  Novelet 

By  EANDO  BINDER 

Next  Issue's  HALL  OF  FAME  Selection ! 


46  STARTLING  STORIES 


for  nice  people.  We’re  goin’  to  go  roamin’ 
around  like  a mad  dog?” 

“A  shunt  here  will  take  care  of  that,”  said 
Rod.  “With  the  shunt  cut  in  it  will  ring  a 
bell  when  a tractor-beam  hits.  With  a power- 
switch  in  parallel  we  can  make  it  shoot  back 
and  then  tell  us  what  it  did.” 

Joe  looked  relieved.  “Y-yeah.  I see  that.” 
He  grinned  twistily.  “I'd  hate  to  go  around 
spittin’  death-beams  just  automatic.  We’d 
wind  up  kinda  lonesome,  seems  like.” 

Rod  went  back  to  the  control-room.  But 
the  weapon  that  was  developing  stayed  in  his 
mind.  He  went  back  again  and  asked  Joe  to 
make  an  adjustment  so  the  push-pull  power- 
feed  could  be  cut  off  from  any  desired  seg- 
ment, so  that  one  part  of  the  weapon’s  range 
could  be  left  unblasted  if  desired. 

“I’m  acting,”  he  said,  almost  embarassed, 
“as  if  I thought  we  might  find  friends.” 
Joe  grunted.  “Well?  Those  guys  in  the 
pyramid-ships  are  tough  babies.  Maybe  the 
folks  they  killed  were  good  guys.  There’s 
usually  a good  guy  somewhere  to  make  up 
for  a bad  one.” 

Then  he  added,  “I'll  have  this  thing  ready 
in  a coupla  hours.  You  know  how  we’re  go- 
in’ to  mount  it  outside?  No, air  there  now!” 
Rod  sketched  out  a notion  for  that  too. 
Joe  grunted  again. 

“That’s  half  an  hour  more.  I’ll  set  those 
welder-guys  workin’  on  it." 

Back  to  the  control-room  again.  Rod 
paced  up  and  down,  no  longer  really  con- 
scious of  the  novelty  of  gravity  in  space. 
The  ship  began  to  feel  like  something  other 
than  a hulk  navigated  by  makeshift  means. 

He  began  to  feel  less  like  a shipwreck  vic- 
tim and  more  like  a man  in  command  of  a 
ship.  He  began,  indeed,  to  think  in  terms 
of  what  could  be  done  to  the  pyramid-race, 
instead  of  the  peril  they  represented. 

It  was  nearer  three  hours  than  two  be- 
fore Joe  reported  the  new  weapon  finished. 
It  had  called  for  very  careful  work  by 
practically  every  man  on  the  ship  and  the 
using  up  of  I-beams  intended  for  interior 
partitions. 

When  it  was  complete,  Rod  threw  the 
switch  that  meant  a return  to  normal  space. 
There  was  practically  no  change  in  sensa- 
tion as  dots  of  light  appeared  in  the  vision- 
ports  and  ran  through  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow  before  they  settled  to  their  usual 
appearance  as  stars  by  myriads  on  every 
hand.  The  yellow  sun  was  now  very  far 
away.  It  was  only  the  brightest  distant  ob- 


ject in  the  heavens. 

They  opened  the  airlock  door,  with  a 
tractor  covering  the  opening  so  no  air  would 
escape.  Focused  pressors  pushed  the  new 
device  outside  and  maneuvered  it  delicately 
to  a new  position.  From  the  ports  Rod 
guided  it  to  the  Stellaris’  nose  and  anchored 
it.  And  then  a tiny  tractor  pulled  back  the 
switch  that  set  the  generator  into  action  and 
the  Stellaris  was  a fighting  ship. 

For  the  first  time  Rod  applied  the  jet- 
drive.  The  ship  gave  a mighty  surge  for- 
ward. 

It  headed  for  the  yellow  star — and  battle. 


CHAPTER  X 
Battle  l 


THEY  had  seen  four  planets  on  their 
first  approach  to  this  solar  system.  One, 
a world  all  ice  from  pole  to  pole,  they  had 
by-passed  for  the  next  world  sunward.  There 
were  two  others  still  nearer  to  the  sun.  Rod 
regarded  them  speculatively  as  the  Stellaris 
drove  toward  the  world  of  dead  cities. 

“I  think,”  he  said  meditatively,  “that  I’m 
going  to  take  a look  at  those  planets — if  we 
live  through  this.” 

Kit  stood  beside  him. 

“And  somehow  that  settles  it.  Do  you 
realize,  Rod,  how  completely  you  are  ex- 
pected to  decide  things  ? One  of  the  painters 
said  we  should  be  trying  to  find  our  own 
sun  or  else  hunting  a planet  we  can  settle 
on.  But  Joe  said  he  was  crazy  and  there 
wasn’t  even  an  argument.  You  wanted  to 
fight,  so  there  simply  wasn’t  any  question 
about  it.” 

“There’s  a reason  for  us  to  fight,”  said 
Rod  curtly.  “Nobody  can  guess  the  size  of 
the  pyramid-ship  fleet  but  it’s  surely  all  hunt- 
ing us.  If  we  stay  in  one  place,  fighting, 
maybe  they’ll  think  we’re  survivors  of  the 
race  they  murdered. 

“We  have  to  try  to  make  them  think  so 
for  the  sake  of  Earth.  If  they  decided  they'd 
better  start  a general  massacre  of  all  the 
races  we  could  come  from,  Earth  would  cer- 
tainly be  included.  And  there’s  no  faintest 
preparation  to  stop  them  back  there.” 

Joe  came  climbing  up  from  the  engine- 
room.  “That  thing  that  looks  like  a con- 
denser,” he  reported  amiably,  “it  works. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


It’s  hot  now — plenty  of  power.  I hooked 
it  up  an’  we’re  runnin’  on  it.” 

“Then  unhook  it,”  commanded  Rod 
sharply.  “Get  back  to  our  own  power ! That 
doesn’t  work  in  the  dark  universe  and  we 
couldn’t  go  into  it  or  stay  in  it!  Shift  the 
leads  back!  Quick'.” 

Joe’s  mouth  dropped  open.  He  dived  for 
the  engine-room  again.  Rod’s  forehead 
creased.  Minutes  later  Joe  came  back,  crest- 
fallen. 

“Sorry,”  he  said  apologetically.  "I 
thought  it  was  kinda  humorous  to  use  their 
own  power  to  fight  ’em  with.  We’re  back  on 
our  own  now.” 

“It’s  broadcast  power,  all  right,”  said  Rod 
grimly.  “Somehow  they  can  fill  the  whole 
Galaxy  with  power  for  their  ships  to  draw 
on — unless  they’ve  found  a source  of  energy 
that  comes  from  nothingness  itself.” 

After  a moment  he  added,  “I  keep  think- 
ing about  those  inner  planets.  It’s  a hunch. 
It  bothers  me.  It  doesn’t  seem  quite  natural.” 
He  shook  his  head  as  if  to  clear  it.  “Those 
devils  must  have  broadcast  power  of  some 
sort,  though.” 

A bell  rang  sharply.  It  stopped.  It  rang 
again.  It  stopped.  It  rang  again.  Rod  and 
Joe  tensed. 

“What  does  that  mean?”  asked  Kit  ap- 
prehensively. 

“It  should  mean  that  we  blasted  a pyramid- 
ship,”  Rod  told  her.  “This  is  a long  way 
out,  though.” 

The  sun  was  again  a glaring  disk.  Some- 
thing winked  in  its  rays.  It  vanished.  It 
winked  again  out  a right-hand  port.  It  was 
infinitely  small  and  the  effect  was  that  of  a 
bit  of  tinsel  spinning  in  a bright  light. 

“Right!”  said  Rod  in  satisfaction.  “A 
pyramid-ship  sentry.  Our  beam-gun  on  the 
bow  found  him  and  blasted  him,  probably  be- 
fore he  knew  anything  about  it.  His  skipper 
probably  had  a spasm  as  he  died  and  jammed 
his  controls,  so  he’s  spinning.” 

The  bell  rang  on  monotonously,  once  in 
each  revolution  of  the  commutator  which 
applied  full  power  to  each  segment  of  the 
tensor-plate  in  turn,  to  blast  any  target  the 
device  might  find.  The  pyramid-ship  was 
getting  a fresh  lethal  dose  of  the  push-pull 
beam  at  each  clang  of  the  bell. 

ONWARD  the  Stellaris  bored.  Presently 
the  bell  stopped. 

Rod  said,  “Hra — we  left  him  behind. 
We’ve  got  to  allow  for  that ! We  can’t  have 


47 

them  coming  up  behind  us,  where  the  ship 
fills  up  a space  and  the  beams  turned  off.” 

“Will  we  beam  the  planets,  Rod?”  asked 
Kit. 

“We’ve  got  a minus  arrangement,”  Rod 
told  her.  “We  don’t  shoot  at  anything  over 
a certain  range.  I don’t  know  exactly  what 
it  is  but  it’s  probably  some  thousands  of 
miles.” 

The  planet  of  the  dead  race  was  a percep- 
tible disk  now.  It  was  the  size  of  a pea. 
Time  passed.  It  grew  to  the  size  of  a mar- 
ble. 

The  bell  rang.  Twice.  It  stopped  and 
rang  twice  again — and  again — and  again. 

“Two  more  of  them,”  said  Rod  savagely. 

Time  passed.  The  double-ring  stopped. 
There  was  silence.  Then  a single  ring  again, 
monotonously  repeated. 

“This  ain’t  sportin’,”  said  Joe,  scowling, 
“but  y ’don’t  play  sportin’  with  rats.” 

The  planet  was  the  size  of  a peach,  now. 
There  was  an  infinitesimal  shimmering  in 
space  ahead — an  infinitely  thin  sliver  of  what 
looked  like  gossamer  came  up  out  of  the 
planet’s  atmosphere.  It  spread  and  formed 
itself  into  a geometric  pattern  of  wavering 
specks  of  light. 

“They  know  we  knocked  off  their  ships,” 
said  Rod.  He  was  thinking  aloud.  “They’ve 
plenty  of  sentries  out  and  when  a ship  dies, 
it  squeals  to  the  rest.  Automatically.  So 
they  know  we  can  hit,  and  hard.  But  they’re 
forming  up  to  fight  us.  How’ll  they  fight?” 

The  Stellaris  sped  furiously  toward  the 
enemy  formation.  There  was  silence.  Then 
Kit  gasped. 

"Rod,  I feel  queer — like  that  other  ti — ” 

Rod’s  hand  moved  like  lightning.  The 
force-field  switch  crashed  over.  He  said 
distinctly — with  the  ports  all  black — “The 
rats !” 

They  were  in  the  dark  universe  for  a bare 
second.  He  flung  the  switch  back  once  more. 
There  was  no  difference  in  the  feel  of  things 
now,  whether  in  other-space  or  normal.  The 
Stellaris  had  dodged  only  momentarily  into 
the  other  set  of  dimensions  but  in  the  other- 
space  her  velocity  was  enormous. 

Rod,  however,  overestimated  it.  He  had 
thought  the  Stellaris  would  slip  back  into 
the  universe  of  stars  beyond  the  enemy  fleet. 
But  she  winked  into  being  in  its  very  midst. 

There  were  shining  pyramidal  shapes  on 
every  hand.  The  bell  burst  into  frenzied, 
continuous  clanging.  Glittering  metal  ships 
flashed  past  the  ports  so  swiftly  that  the 


STARTLING  STORIES 


48 

eye  could  not  focus  on  them. 

But  the  Stellaris’  weapon  poured  out 
death — the  death  of  the  pyramid-folk’s  oWn 
contriving — as  the  Earth-ship  hurtled 
through  the  fleet  of  space-murderers  and 
went  on  beyond  them.  She  was  through  be- 
fore they  could  train  a single  weapon. 

Then  Rod  swung  her  about  to  face  the 
enemy.  The  drive-jet  fought  her  acquired 
momentum.  The  ship  slowed — and  kept  its 
beam-weapon  going  as  it  struggled  to  dash 
in  again. 

Minute  by  minute  the  clanging  of  the  bell 
grew  less.  Despite  her  drive  the  ship  was 
only  slowing.  She  had  not  stopped.  But 
when  the  planet’s  disk  ceased  to  recede  and 
began  to  grow  visibly  larger  once  more — 
when  her  savage  second  charge  was  evident — 
Rod  saw  flickerings  as  pyramid-ships  de- 
serted their  formation  and  fled  toward  emp- 
tiness. 

The  main  body  of  the  fleet  did  not  dis- 
perse. It  did  not  flee.  But  as  minute  after 
minute  passed,  it  became  apparent  that 
something  was  wrong.  The  edges  of  the 
pyramid-formation  grew  fuzzy.  The  ships 
did  not  keep  station. 

When  the  Stellaris  bored  into  them  again 
the  bell  clanged  and  clanged  and  clanged. 
At  the  thickest  part  of  the  fleet  it  rang  fran- 
tically, one  sharp  stroke  for  each  outpour- 
ing of  the  push-pull  beam  at  an  individual 
target.  But  the  ships  made  no  concerted 
move,  nor  any  purposeful  individual  ones. 
The  Stellaris  was  merely  killing  again  ships 
that  were  already  dead. 

MINUTES  more  and  she  was  through  a 
second  time  and  the  first  space-battle 
in  all  the  history  of  the  galaxy  was  over. 
One  Earth-ship  that  had  taken  off  from  its 
home  planet  by  pure  accident,  unarmed  and 
unequipped,  had  wiped  out  nine-tenths  of  a 
fleet  that  had  never  before  been  opposed. 
And  its  remnants  were  in  flight. 

The  Stellaris  drove  on  and  on.  The  un- 
manned hulks  which  had  been  fighting  ves- 
sels only  a little  while  since  fell  astern.  The 
clamor  of  the  bell  lessened.  Presently  there 
were  only  random  disconnected  sounds.  Later 
there  were  none  at  all. 

“Not  too  nervy,”  commented  Rod.  “They 
saw  we  had  them  licked  and  those  that  were 
left  headed  for  home.  It  fits  the  way  their 
minds  seem  to  work.” 

“What  will  we  do  now?”  asked  Kit. 
“Land  on  the  planet  again?” 


Rod  considered,  scowling.  “Part  of  the 
fleet  ran  away  as  soon  as  they  found  their 
broadside  was  no  good.” 

“Broadside?” 

“Massed  push-pull  beams,”  said  Rod 
shortly.  “They  turned  the  beams  of  the 
whole  fleet  on  us.  We  shouldn’t  have  been 
able  to  live  through  it  to  get  within  range 
with  a single  ship’s  weapons.  Probably 
wouldn’t,  at  that,  only  you  felt  queer. 

“That  was  the  first-aligned  beams  hit- 
ting us,  away  out  of  range  for  a few  beams 
but  well  in  range  for  the  bunch  of  them! 
Another  second  and  that  blast  would  have 
been  so  strong  nothing  in  creation  could 
have  stood  it.  Certainly  we  couldn’t!”  He 
paused. 

“Some  of  them,  though,  ran  from  a fleet 
action.  They’re  not  a very  brave  race.  I’m 
trying  to  figure  something  out.  The  ships 
on  the  ground  knew  we’d  knocked  off  their 
sentries.  Of  course ! So  we  were  dangerous. 

“So  maybe  some  of  them  didn’t  take  off 
with  the  rest  of  the  fleet.  Playing  it  safe. 
It  would  seem  to  fit  in  with  the  way  their 
minds  work.  So  maybe  some  ships  are  still 
skulking  on  the  ground.” 

“So?”  Kit  waited. 

“If  we  can  spot  them  they’re  dead  ducks. 
But  if  we  tried  to  land  they  might  knock 
us  down  practically  from  ambush.  They're 
probably  half  shivering  in  deadly  fear  and 
half  licking  their  chops  as  they  wait  for  us 
to  land.  So — ” 

He  looked  abruptly  at  Kit,  and  then  at 
Joe.  Joe  grinned. 

“I  guess  we  stop  off  at  one  of  those  other 
planets?” 

“That’ll  be  it,”  said  Kit  confidently. 

Rod’s  eyes  narrowed,  even  as  he  released 
the  small  hand-tractor  which  kept  the  deadly 
contrivance  on  the  ship’s  bow  in  action. 

“Ye-e-e-s,”  he  said  slowly.  “I  guess  that 
will  be  it.  We’ll  see  what  is  to  be  seen.  But 
I think  I’m  going  to  be  mighty  cagey!” 

He  swung  the  Stellaris  about  on  her 
course. 

The  line  of  flight  of  a space-ship  is  not 
at  all  the  same  thing  as — say — the  path  of  a 
ground-vehicle.  When  a ground-vehicle, 
moving  south,  turns  east  it  travels  east  and 
stops  moving  south.  A space-ship  doesn’t. 
The  space-ship  doesn’t  stop  moving  south. 
There’s  nothing  to  stop  it. 

When  a course  is  changed  the  new  line 
of  movement  simply  modifies  the  one  the 
ship  followed  before  and  that  is  the  result 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


of  all  its  previous  courses.  A southward- 
moving  space-ship  which  heads  east  actually 
travels  on  a line  somewhere  between  south 
and  east. 

The  exact  line  depends  on  the  acceleration 
of  the  ship,  how  long  it  was  on  the  southerly 
course,  and  how  long  it  continues  on  the 
eastern  one.  Its  direction  of  motion  changes 
with  each  of  those  factors.  So  that  to  sight 
for  a planet  from  space,  as  the  Stellaris  did, 
and  then  head  for  it,  is  no  way  at  all  to 
reach  it. 

Rod  probably  knew  it  in  theory  but  he 
realized  it  the  hard  way.  The  yellow  sun’s 
second  planet  had  a proper  motion  all  its 
own,  which  Rod  did  not  know.  The  Stellaris 
had  a motion  all  its  own,  which  was  the  re- 
sult of  all  the  courses  it  had  followed  during 
two  full  days  in  two  different  universes.  But 
nevertheless,  Rod  aimed  the  ship  at  the  sec- 
ond planet  and  drove  for  it. 

Hours  passed  and  the  Stellaris  was  far- 
ther from  the  planet  than  when  it  started. 
More,  it  no  longer  pointed  at  the  planet 
though  the  distant  stars  it  aimed  at  were 
the  same.  Rod  tried  again  and  the  same  thing 
happened.  In  the  end,  scowling,  he  swung  a 
tractor  on  the  elusive  world,  waited  an  as- 
tonishing four  full  minutes  for  the  beam  to 
take  hold  and  then  grumpily  set  Joe  on  watch 
and  went  to  sleep.  It  was  his  second  period 
of  rest  in  more  clock-days  than  he  could 
count  up. 

He  slept  heavily  for  a long,  long  time. 
He  waked  and  Kit  brought  him  food.  It 
was  strictly  vegetable  and  vaguely  unsatis- 
fying. He  ate,  only  half-awake,  and  went 
back  to  sleep  again. 

This  time  he  dreamed.  And  oddly,  it  was 
not  a dream  of  Earth  or  of  the  battle  just 
past  or  even  of  Kit,  whom  he  could  not 
allow  to  absorb  him  too  much  in  the  present 
state  of  things.  He  dreamed  of  the  dead  race 
on  the  yellow  sun’s  planet — the  race  which 
was  now  only  a multitude  of  crumpled  heaps 
of  brightly-colored  garments. 

IN  his  dream  he  saw  a space-ship  rise 
from  the  third  planet  and  land  upon  an- 
other. He  dreamed  of  a tiny  colony  estab- 
lished there  before  this  space-ship  made  its 
flight.  This  ship  landed  on  a hitherto  un- 
explored part  of  this  new  planet  and  the 
colonists  just  moving  to  the  new  planet 
found  a vague  metal  object  there. 

They  meddled  with  it  and  immediately  they 
died — not  only  the  meddlers,  but  those  in 


49 

the  grounded  space-ship  nearby.  And  then 
the  object  melted  itself  to  a mere  pool  of 
bubbling  metal,  which  was  found  by  mem- 
bers of  the  already-established  colony  much, 
much  later. 

The  space-ship  itself  was  smashed  as  if 
by  explosives.  And  after  that  there  was  no 
more  communication  between  the  colony  on 
this  other  world  and  the  planet  from  which 
they  had  come.  The  colonists  simply  lived 
on,  bewildered  and  helpless. 

As  a dream  it  was  at  once  remarkable  and 
suspicious.  It  was  reasonable  enough  as  a 
rationalization  of  a hunch.  But  Rod  won- 
dered cagily  why  his  subconscious  had  pic- 
tured no  metal  pyramid  as  the  object  the 
colonists-to-be  had  meddled  with?  Why  not 
a pyramid  with  sculptured  figures  on  its 
sides  ? 

It  was  a very  vivid  dream.  Of  course  he’d 
been  thinking  of  other  races  endangered  by 
the  pyramid-ships.  Toe  had  said  something 
about  good  guys  existing  to  make  up  for  the 
bad  ones.  And  he’d  thought  unreasonably 
often  of  the  yellow  sun’s  second  planet. 
Especially  lately.  Even  when  his  mind 
should  have  been  full  of  battle-plans  as  the 
Stellaris  sped  toward  a fight. 

It  could  be  a hunch,  of  course.  He’d  had 
a hunch  before — on  the  dead  planet,  when 
he  was  making  a push-pull  beam  to  wipe 
out  the  looters  there.  He’d  felt  deadly  dan- 
ger without  knowing  why  he  felt  it. 

He’d  worked  frantically,  racing  against 
time,  though  he  knew  of  no  real  reason  why 
he  should  fear  the  coming  of  looters  to  the 
city  the  Stellaris  had  landed  in.  And  that 
hunch  and  the  hurry  it  caused  had  saved 
him  and  Joe  and  a painter  tliUn  and  there 
and  probably  the  Stellaris  besides. 

The  hunch  and  the  dream  and  the  constant 
thought  of  the  second  planet  fitted  together 
a little  too  well.  It  was  plausible  that  un- 
easiness should  show  up  as  a hunch.  It  was 
reasonable  enough  that  an  urge  to  visit  a 
planet  should  show  up  in  a dream  as  a con- 
cocted explanation  of  a reason  why  he  should 
go  there.  But  he  didn’t  believe  it. 

The  real  cause  of  his  dream  didn’t  know 
that  the  killer-race  made  its  booby-traps  in 
the  form  of  pyramids.  The  real  cause  of  his 
dream  didn’t  picture  a pyramid  on  the  second 
planet,  though  almost  certainly  one  had  been 
there  to  cause  the  murder  of  a race. 

Rod  got  up,  thinking  coldly.  He  heard  Joe’s 
voice,  angry. 

“That  ring-tailed  haystack  ain’t  goin’  to 


50  STARTLING  STORIES 


lick  us ! If  we  set  out  to  hit  some  place  we’re 
goin’  to  hit  it.” 

Rod  stepped  into  the  control-room.  Kit 
was  there,  looking  anxiously  ahead.  Joe 
shook  his  fist  out  of  a forward  vision-port. 

“Morning,”  said  Rod,  drily.  “I  must’ve 
slept  the  clock  around.  What’s  up?” 

Then  he  saw.  The  second  planet  loomed 
large  and  very  near.  It  appeared  to  be  mere- 
ly a featureless  fleecy  white.  That  would  be 
clouds.  But  on  closer  view  the  clouds  were 
not  wholly  solid. 

They  were  in  masses  which  sometimes 
merely  thinned  at  their  junctures,  and  some- 
times separated  a little  to  show  a darkness 
below  them,  the  whole  producing  a mottled 
semi-marbled  effect.  But  the  Stellaris  was 
not  approaching  the  planet.  It  rotated  serenely 
at  a seemingly  fixed  distance. 

“We  been  tryin’  to  get  down  onto  that 
hunka  cussedness  yonder,”  explained  Joe, 
indignantly.  “But  the  closer  we  come  the 
quicker  it  dodges ! We  been  clean  around  it  a 
dozen  times  already  an’  we  can’t  get  a bit 
closer ! What’re  they  doin’  down  there  ? 
Pushin’  us  off  with  a pressor?” 

Rod  grinned.  He  thought  he  understood 
the  dream  now. 

“Hardly!  We’ve  got  a lateral  velocity  and 
we’re  hung  tight  to  the  planet  by  a tractor 
beam.  So  we’re  in  an  orbit  around  it.  Nat- 
urally we  can’t  get  down  like  that!” 

“Says  who?”  demanded  Joe  pugnaciously, 
scowling  at  the  planet. 

“Says  me,”  Rod  told  him.  “We’ll  get 
down  though."  He  took  over  what  controls 
there  were.  “When  I was  a kid  I used  to 
twirl  a weight  on  a string  and  get  it  going 
fast,  then  let  ft  wind  itself  up  on  my  finger. 
Did  you?" 

“Uh-huh,  but  what’s  that  got  to  do  with 
this?”  demanded  Joe. 

“It’s  the  trick,"  said  Rod.  “As  the  string 
wound  up  and  got  shorter,  the  weight  went 
around  faster  and  faster.  Remember  ?/  But 
it  didn’t  go  faster  in  feet  per  second,  just 
twirls  per  second.  That’s  us.  The  closer  we 
get  the  faster  we  go  around  it — and  our 
tractor-beam  will  stretch.  That’s  all.  I’ll  fix 
it.” 

HE  SWUNG  the  ship  until  the  fleecy 
planet  was  straight  abeam.  He  put  on 
full  drive  in  the  direction  opposite  that  of  the 
planet’s  seeming  motion. 

“How  long  do  we  take  to  get  around?"  he 
asked. 


“Less’n  an  hour,"  said  Joe  angrily.  “You 
can  tell.  There’s  one  place  where  it  looks  like 
a mountain  or  something  sticks  up  through 
the  clouds.” 

Rod  nodded.  That  checked.  “We’ll  land 
there.  ” 

He  watched.  The  Stellaris’  drive  produced 
no  visible  effect  for  a long  time  and  it  seemed 
insane  to  try  to  descend  to  a planet’s  surface 
by  driving  at  right-angles  to  the  desired 
descent.  But  that  was  the  only  way  it  could 
be  done. 

Presently  the  passage  of  the  mottled  misty 
surface  seemed  slower.  At  the  very  farthest 
edge  of  the  visible  hemisphere,  a speck  of 
solidity  appeared.  Rod  stepped  up  the  drive 
again.  It  made  a noticeable  increase  in  the 
feeling  of  weight. 

Then  the  mottlings  were  visibly  larger.  As 
the  planet  seemed  to  slow,  the  mottlings  con- 
tinued to  increase  in  size. 

“We’re  coming  close,  now,”  said  Rod. 
“We’ll  be  holding  off  on  pressors,  presently.” 

It  was  true.  The  sphere  beneath  slowed  to 
a snail’s  pace  and  it  was  very  near  indeed. 
The  speck  of  solidity  vanished  and  reap- 
peared, and  vanished  and  reappeared.  Mist 
sometimes  boiled  over  it,  sometimes  left  it  in 
plain  view. 

Rod  began  to  juggle  tractor  and  pressor- 
beams.  He  adjusted  the  jet-drive.  At  long 
last  the  planet's  surface  seemed  stationary 
and  he  cut  off  the  jet.  He  began,  very  care- 
fully, to  let  the  ship  down  into  atmosphere. 

“I’m  going  to  make  a guess,”  he  said 
meditatively.  “When  we  get  down  to  that 
mountain-tip — it’s  the  only  one  that  pierces 
the  clouds — we’ll  find  a big  mass  of  stuff  that 
once  was  melted  metal.  And  not  too  far  away 
we’ll  find  a smashed-up  space-ship.  Not  a 
pyramid-ship,  this  one,  but  a ship  made  back 
on  the  planet  that’s  dead  now.” 

Kit  looked  at  him,  and  her  mouth  opened. 
Then  the  logic  of  the  statement  appeared. 

“I  think  I see,”  she  said  slowly.  “You 
mean  it  would  have  been  easier  for  the  peo- 
ple of  the  dead  cities  to  reach  this  planet 
than  the  snow-covered  one  because  it  comes 
nearer.  And  the  one  place  where  solid  ground 
shows  would  be  the  place  where  a space-ship 
would  land.  Also  it  would  be  the  one  place 
where  the  pyramid-people  would  have  put 
something  to  tell  them  when  it  was  touched.” 

Rod  grimaced.  “I  spoke  too  sensibly,”  he 
said.  “Now  I’ll  make  a prophecy.  When  we 
land  we’ll  wait.  And  presently  some  sur- 
vivors of  the  race  of  the  next  planet  out  will 


51 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


come  to  us.  And  I think  they’ll  be  friendly.” 
Toe  blinked.  “Ghosts?” 

“No.  Real  people,”  Rod  assured  him. 
“People  that  happened  not  to  be  home  when 
their  world  was  murdered  but  perfectly  real 
people.  You  saw  what  they  were  like  in  the 
televisors.” 

“How’ll  they  come?”  demanded  Joe  skep- 
tically. “Space-ships?” 

“More  likely  aeroplanes,”  said  Rod,  work- 
ing the  ship  down  with  infinite  pains.  “Maybe 
ground-vehicles.  But  they’ll  come!” 

In  this,  though,  he  was  wrong.  He  let  down 
the  Stellaris  with  the  utmost  of  painstaking 
care.  There  was  air  outside,  and  winds. 
There  was  a vast  sea  of  cloud  and  streamers 
of  mist  that  writhed  up  from  it. 

Sometimes  the  mountain-top  was  hidden 
by  white  stuff.  Sometimes  it  was  laid  bare. 
But  at  long  last  the  Stellaris  settled  with  a 
noticeable  jolt  upon  the  barren  rock  of  what 
appeared  to  be  an  upward-slanted  small 
plateau  rather  than  a pointed  peak. 

Rod  pointed  out  a port.  There,  in  plain 
view  from  where  the  ship  touched  ground, 
was  a shining,  mirror-like  surface.  It  had  been 
a liquid  once.  It  was  solid  metal  now.  A 
quarter-mile  away  there  was  a shattered 
carcass  which  was  only  a quarter  of  the 
Stellaris’  size  but  surely  had  once  been  a 
nearly  spherical  space-ship. 

But  Rod  was  mistaken  about  waiting,  about 
having  people  of  the  supposedly  dead  race 
come  to  them. 

They  didn’t  have  to  wait.  The  people  were 
already  there  on  the  mountain-top,  waiting 
for  them. 


CHAPTER  XI 

\ 

In  the  Cards 

THE  Stellaris  settled  again  through  thick 
and  swirling  mists.  Slowly  and  cautious- 
ly, and  slowly  and  cautiously,  she  moved 
down  toward  the  white  oblivion  the  clouds 
promised  and  produced. 

There  were  strange  people  in  the  control- 
room  of  the  Earth-ship.  The  tallest  was  no 
more  than  four  and  a half  feet  tall  and  they 
were  distinctly  rotund,  all  of  them.  They 
made  clear  high-pitched  sounds  to  each  other, 
and  now  and  again  one  of  them  put  urgent 
hands  upon  Rod  at  the  controls  and  made  the 


same  clear  sounds  to  him. 

At  such  times  the  sounds  made  sense. 
When  there  was  physical  contact  there  was 
meaning  in  the  musical  tones  of  the  small 
people.  At  other  times  they  were  only  sounds 
— very  musical,  more  or  less  pleasant,  but 
only  sounds. 

But  of  course  the  same  could  be  said 
of  any  unfamiliar  Earth  language. 

Rod  had  been  prepared  for  it.  After  all, 
he’d  had  a highly  useful  hunch  in  a dead 
city  and  he’d  been  obsessed  with  the  thought 
of  coming  to  this  planet,  and  he’d  had  a 
dream  which  ignored  information  he  pos- 
sessed. 

Had  his  own  subconscious  mind  dictated 
that  dream,  it  would  surely  have  pictured  a 
metal  pyramid  on  the  cloud-wreathed  world 
as  the  origin  of  the  pool  of  metal.  But  the 
dream  did  not  picture  that  at  all. 

When  the  other  facts  were  taken  into 
consideration  it  added  up  to  limited,  incom- 
plete information  from  somewhere,  from  a 
source  which  had  some  knowledge  that  Rod 
did  not  possess  and  lacked  some  data  that  he 
did. 

Explanation  was  complete,  now.  The  dream 
was  accurate  as  far  as  it  went.  The  little  peo- 
ple now  in  the  ship’s  control-room  had  been 
very  brave  indeed.  They’d  come  out  of  the 
mist  to  meet  the  Stellaris  as  it  landed  and 
they’d  made  gestures  obviously  intended  as  a 
welcome. 

And  Rod  had  gone  out  to  them.  He  car- 
ried a flame-weapon  taken  from  the  captured 
pyramid-ship  but  he  left  it  in  his  pocket.  He 
had  no  uneasiness  about  the  air  because  the 
small  people  breathed  it  and  the  air  of  their 
home  planet  was  suitable  for  humans. 

So  the  group  of  half  a dozen  rotund  figures 
and  Rod — inevitably  grim — had  met  on  the 
top  of  the  one  mountain  to  rise  above  the 
planet’s  clouds.  There  was  not  exactly  tense- 
ness in  the  air.  Rod  felt  an  anxious,  an  actual- 
ly desperate  sensation  of  hope  and  fear  to- 
gether, communicated  to  him  in  the  odd 
fashion  of  a hunch. 

He  spoke.  His  tone  was  dry.  “We’re  all  in 
the  same  jam,  it  seems.  And  with  a com- 
munity of  dislikes  we  ought  to  be  friends." 

Flutelike  notes  filled  his  ears.  Then  a short 
round  figure  approached,  very  hesitantly,  and 
held  out  two  hands.  They  were  not  human 
hands  but  they  were  empty.  Rod  put  out  his 
own.  The  round  figure  almost  apologetically 
moved  closer  and  very  tentatively  offered  to 
touch  hands  with  Rod. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


52 

‘TH  try  anything  once,”  said  Rod.  "Go 
ahead!” 

The  hands  touched.  The  round  man’s  flesh 
was  warm  and  firm.  But  instantly  the  high- 
pitched  sounds  were  language.  Urgent,  ap- 
prehensive words.  It  was  even  reasonable 
that  comprehension  should  follow  physical 
contact  but  Rod  did  not  wait  for  theoretic 
discussion.  He  spoke  himself  and  his  words 
were  understood. 

Minutes  later  he  led  the  way  to  the  air- 
lock. 

“These  people,”  he  said  crisply  inside  the 
ship,  with  the  small  group  clustered  behind 
him.  "These  people  are  members  of  a colony 
from  the  planet  we  visited.  They  know  the 
rest  of  their  race  is  wiped  out.  They’ve  every 
reason  to  be  our  friends. 

“If  you  holds  hands  with  them  you  can 
talk.  We’ll  work  out  explanations  later.  Right 
now  we’re  going  to  shift  the  Stellaris  down 
out  of  sight  beneath  the  clouds.  Get  talking  to 
them  and  find  out  all  you  can.” 

AND  then  he  went  to  the  control-room 
with  the  round  man  who  had  first 
touched  hands  with  him.  He  prepared  to 
shift  the  Stellaris.  Here,  atop  the  mountain, 
at  least  sometimes  it  could  be  sighted  from 
space  and  bathed  in  a deadly  push-pull  beam. 

The  ship  rose  on  her  pressor-beams.  She 
moved.  But  navigation  in  a world  of  mist  was 
ticklish.  Rod  had  to  feel  his  way  cautiously. 
More,  the  small  people  had  come  a long  way 
to  greet  the  Earth-ship.  It  was  necessary  to 
ease  the  unwieldy  space-craft  through  many 
passes  among  high  and  unseen  mountains. 

There  were  moments  when  he  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  task  and  the  trilling  speech  of 
the  little  folk  was  a disturbance.  And  there 
were  many  times  when  warm  hands  touched 
him  irritatingly — but  at  each  such  contact  the 
twitterings  became  intelligible — and  he  re- 
ceived useful  knowledge  about  his  immediate 
problem. 

When  the  mountains  were  cleared  there 
was  a long  flight  of  some  hundreds  of  miles 
over  unseen  level  stuff  which  might  have 
been  either  flat  land  or  sea.  Rod  did  not  like 
it.  He  liked  to  see  what  he  was  doing.  But 
in  snatches  between  the  more  practical  data 
on  course  and  height  he  caught  fragments  of 
twittering  not  meant  for  his  ears.  And  they 
were  reassuring. 

When  at  long  last  he  set  the  ship  down — it 
was  actually  the  third  time  he  had  brought 
her  to  ground  since  her  lunatic  departure 


from  Earth — when  at  long  last  he  landed 
again  he  was  reasonably  satisfied  about  the 
small  folk.  But  he  was  wholly  dissatisfied 
with  the  picture  of  the  future  as  they  saw  it. 
He  was  not  even  very  much  pleased  with 
the  ship’s  surroundings  when  he  cut  off  the 
power. 

The  Stellaris  lay  in  a forest  of  gigantic 
trees,  with  trunks  from  ten  to  fifty  feet  in 
diameter.  There  was  everywhere  a gray 
twilight.  Huge  wide-spreading  branches  at 
once  shut  out  a view  of  the  clouds  and 
seemed  to  form  a roof  which  kept  out  the  mist, 
so  that  the  space  beneath  them  was  clear. 

Later  one  of  the  biological  assistants  told 
Kit  that  the  order  of  things  in  vegetation  was 
reversed  in  these  trees.  Instead  of  taking 
moisture  from  the  ground  and  losing  it 
through  the  leaves,  these  trees  absorbed 
water  through  their  foliage  and  sent  it  down 
to  their  roots. 

But  under  their  protection  the  colony 
from  the  third  planet  had  set  itself  up  to  sur- 
vive. There  was  a tiny  power-house,  quaintly 
like  the  architecture  of  the  dead  cities  in  its 
details.  Three  were  small  houses.  And  every- 
where, some  fifty  to  a hundred  feet  up  on 
the  tree-trunks,  there  were  light -projectors 
to  throw  light  down  on  the  colony  and  its 
inhabitants  and  their  cultivated  fields.  • 

On  a cloud-covered  planet  there  would  not 
be  much  ultra-violet  and  under  such  a forest 
there  would  be  none  at  all.  But  lights  could 
substitute.  The  colony  could  survive  and  feed 
itself.  But  it  was  very  small.  There  were  no 
more  than  two  hundred  individuals  remain- 
ing of  a race  that  had  dotted  a planet  with 
cities. 

When  the  humans  emerged  from  the  ship 
they  could  feel  the  overwhelming  relief  from 
tension  the  welcoming-party’s  report  had 
brought.  Rod  was  led  at  once  to  the  colony’s 
head.  And — holding  hands  absurdly — they 
plunged  into  the  business  before  them. 

For  the  rest  the  establishment  of  friendship 
and  understanding  was  the  most  urgent  of 
needs.  Kit  took  half  a dozen  of  the  little 
round  women  into  the  Stellaris.  She  held 
hands  and  talked  and  they  readily  understood 
her. 

They  exclaimed  politely  over  the  Stellaris, 
but  it  was  clear  that  they  considered  its  in- 
completion uncivilized.  Only  after  Kit  ex- 
plained the  accidental  and  unpremeditated 
beginning  of  the  voyage  were  they  quite  con- 
vinced. Then  they  expressed  engaging  sym- 
pathy. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


BUT  when  they  saw  the  loot  taken  from 
the  pyramid-ship — the  lustrous  fabrics, 
and  the  delicately  prismatic  plastic-ware,  and 
the  flowers  and  seeming  people  on  the  other 
art-objects — they  were  fascinated. 

They  could  not  understand  how  people  who 
made  such  things  could  be  murderers.  Then 
Kit  explained  that  it  was  apparently  loot 
from  still  another  murdered  race  and  she 
fairly  felt  the  burning  hatred  the  small  people 
knew. 

When  Rod  came  back  to  the  ship  she  was 
full  of  news. 

“Rod,  they’re  adorable!’’  she  told  him 
enthusiastically.  “They’re  civilized!  They’re 
charming ! I’ve  found  out  about  the  telepathy, 
Rod.  They  say  that  telepathy’s  never  quite 
satisfactory  because  no  two  people  see  things 
exactly  the  same  way. 

“A  square  or  a circle  doesn’t  look  quite 
the  same  to  me -as  it  does  to  you,  Rod.  So 
there's  normally  a fogginess  in  anything  like 
thought-transference  because  you’re  trying  to 
see  through  somebody  else’s  eyes.” 

Rod  nodded. 

“But  words  do  help  to  get  thoughts  into 
a pattern  that  can  be  transmitted,”  Kit  went 
on  breathlessly.  “And  with  contact  real  com- 
munication is  possible.  When  they  talk  and 
hold  hands  they  get  each  other’s  meanings 
much  more  accurately  than  we  do. 

“Outside  of  that  they  can  only  pick  up  emo- 
tions, not  thoughts.  They  know  how  you  feel 
but  not  what  you  think.  And  they  knew  that 
their  race  was  dead  when  they  couldn’t  pick 
up  any  feeling  of  the  race’s  emotions. 

“They  were  able  to  tell  when  the  looters 
were  on  the  planet  because  their  emotions 
were  alien  and  contemptuous.  But  when  they 
picked  up  our  emotions  of  horror  and  sym- 
pathy and  anger  at  what  we  saw  they  knew 
we’d  come  and  weren’t  the  murderers!” 

“I  know,”  said  Rod  tiredly.  “The  whole 
colony  held  hands  and  all  of  them  tried  to 
warn  us  about  the  looters  but  all  they  could 
do  was  make  me  jumpy.  Before  the  battle  they 
were  trying  again.” 

“They  could  only  make  us  interested  in  the 
inner  planets.  After  I went  to  sleep  they 
were  able  to  make  me  dream  but  they  can’t 
do  more  than  that  without  physical  contact 
and  it  took  all  of  them  working  together  to 
do  so  much.” 

“It's  wonderful  that  they’re  able  to  do  that 
much,”  said  Kit. 

“Very  wonderful,”  said  Rod  in  some  bit- 
terness. “They  brought  us  here  with  it.  But 


53 

do  you  think  we  can  take  all  of  them  on  the 
Stellar  is?  Will  our  air-purifier  keep  them 
from  suffocating  with  us  if  they  stay  on  board 
indefinitely?” 

Kit  looked  blank.  “I  don’t  suppose  so.  It’s 
kept  the  air  good  for  us.” 

“Fifteen  people!  Add  two  hundred  more. 
What  then?” 

“But  they’re  all  right  here,  aren’t  they?” 
“For  how  long?”  demanded  Rod.  “We 
had  one  brief  contact  with  a space-ship  just 
out  of  Earth.  All  our  other  contacts  have  been 
here  in  this  solar  system.  The  pyramid-people 
murdered  this  race  because  they  made  a 
space-ship  and  it  was  only  luck  that  this 
colony’d  been  started  before  they  learned  of  it. 
We  figured  that  if  we  stayed  here  those 
fiends  would  think  we  were  survivors  and  not 
guess  we  came  from  Earth.  Now  there  are 
survivors!  So  what  happens?” 

Kit  shook  her  head.  He  said  savagely, 
“Those  rats  hunt  for  us — as  a colony.  They 
find  these  people — a colony.  They  wipe  them 
out  for  what  we’ve  done ! I’ve  been  talking  to 
the  colony  head.  There’s  no  evading  it.  That’s 
in  the  cards.” 


CHAPTER  XII 
Boarders 


SHRILL  twitterings  down  below.  The 
voice  of  Joe  the  electrician,  just  coming 
in  the  air-lock. 

“Okay,  fellas!  If  you  can  make  anything 
outa  it,  you’re  welcome ! Anyhow,  it’s  plenty 
hot  if  you  can  use  the  power.” 

His  voice  died  away  and  the  twitterings 
with  it.  He  was  taking  a group  of  the  small 
round  men  into  the  engine-room,  doubtless 
to  show  them  the  condenser-device  from  the 
pyramid-ship  the  Stellaris’  crew  had  looted. 

“If  we  hadn’t  turned  up,”  said  Rod,  “those 
fiends  would  never  have  suspected  that  there 
were  survivors.  The  colony  could  have  gone 
on  for  centuries,  building  up  a new  civiliza- 
tion maybe  and  knowing  about  space-mur- 
derers and  working  out  ways  of  fighting  them 
when  they  dared  take  to  space  again.  But  we 
turned  up.  We’ve  spoiled  that  idea!” 

He  spread  out  his  hands.  “Those  rats  will 
look  for  us.  They’ll  find  them.  If  we  go  away 
and  leave  these  people  here  they’ll  be  mur- 
dered like  the  rest  of  their  race.  Because  of 


54  STARTLING  STORIES 


ns!  And  we  can’t  allow  that!” 

“N-naturally,”  said  Kit  distressedly.  "Of 
course  we  can’t.  But  what  can  we  do?” 
"That’s  what’s  got  to  be  worked  out,”  Rod 
told  her  grimly.  “We  can  depend  on  the 
pyramid-ships  coming  back.  And  with  an 
answer  to  our  last  trick,  too!” 

He  felt  something  close  to  despair.  There 
are  obligations  that  cannot  be  evaded.  If  the 
Stellaris  had  made  the  race  of  murderers 
suspect  the  existence  of  a colony,  where  there 
was  none,  that  was  warfare.  But  to  cause 
those  murderers  to  search  for  a colony  which 
did  exist  was  something  else.  Human  beings 
can’t  do  that  sort  of  thing  and  go  off  un- 
troubled. 

Joe  came  in,  beaming.  "Those  little  guys 
are  pretty  smart,”  he  said  contentedly.  “They 
take  that  condenser  that’s  a power-picker-up 
an’  chirp  at  each  other  an’  tell  me  they  think 
they  know  somethin’  that  they  can  figure  out 
that  gizmo  from.  They  say  they  got  a hunch 
it’s  even  the  answer  to  faster-than-light 
travel.  So  they  go  off,  cartin’  it  precious,  to 
see  what  they  see.  Okay?” 

Rod  nodded.  He  sat  scowling  at  the  mass 
of  unfilled  spaces  which  should  have  been 
the  Stellaris’  instrument-board. 

“Listen,  Joe,”  he  said  heavily.  “Those 
pyramid-rats  have  taken  a licking.  From  us. 
But  they  can’t  leave  it  at  that.  They  can’t 
stay  licked.  They’ve  committed  so  many 
crimes  they  can’t  stop.  If  any  other  race  gets 
space  travel  and  they  can’t  wipe  that  race  out 
the  pyramid-people  get  wiped  out.  They 
know  it.  They  can’t  make  friends  now.  It’s 
too  late!” 

Joe  said  amiably,  “Those  little  guys  won’t 
make  friends,  that’s  sure!  Maybe  they  got 
squeaky  high  voices  but  they  know  what  hate 
is ! They  were  asking  me  questions  about  the 
cities  yonder  an’  the  way  I could  tell  they 
felt  made  my  hair  curl ! 

Rod  said  impatiently,  “What  do  you  think 
the  pyramid-ships  will  come  back  with?  I 
doubt  they’re  too  smart.  They  made  some 
discoveries  and  used  them  for  weapons  and 
apparently  were  satisfied  to  stop  at  that. 
Their  ships  are  no  more  civilized  than  a pirate 
ship  in  the  old  days.  But  they’ve  got  to  work 
out  some  way  to  handle  us.  What’ll  it  be?” 
Joe  sat  on  the  corner  of  what  was  intended 
for  a navigator’s  table,  if  a navigator  should 
ever  acquire  star-maps  and  navigating  instru- 
ments. He  swung  one  foot. 

“What  I’d  do  ? Hm — we  come  out  of  other- 
space  right  in  the  middle  of  their  fleet  an’ 


knock  ’em  off  by  dozens  before  they  can  slap 
a beam  on  us,  an’  we’re  gone,  still  fightin’, 
before  they  come  to — them  that’s  left.  If  I 
had  to  cook  up  somethin’  it’d  be  to  handle  a 
ship  that  turned  up  in  my  lap.” 

Rod  waited,  frowning. 

“An’  it  looks  to  me,”  said  Joe,  “like  if  I 
thought  somebody  was  goin’  to  do  that  I’d 
have  beams  goin’  out  in  all  directions  as  soon 
as  I thought  he  was  thinkin’  about  it.  If 
there  was  any  way  to  keep  ’em  from  bumping 
off  my  own  gang — ” 

Rod  jumped.  “Right.  I keep  thinking  in 
terms  of  our  outfitting.  But  they’ve  got 
measuring  instruments!  They  can  calibrate 
their  beams!  They  could  mount  push-pull 
generators  that  would  kill  up  to  ten  thousand 
miles  but  not  beyond. 

"Then  they  could  space  their  ships  fifteen 
thousand  miles  apart  and  have  a fifty-percent 
overlap  and  a formation  that’d  fill  up  the 
whole  solar  system ! All  such  a fleet  would 
need  to  do  would  be  simply  to  sweep  through 
a solar  system  and  everything  in  it  would 
be  dead!  If  we  charged  a formation  like 
that  or  tried  to  turn  up  in  its  middle  ...” 

WOE  nodded.  “Uh-huh.  We’d  get  a dose 
®JP  of  push-pull  beam  that’d  knock  us  off 
in  a hurry.” 

"And  what’s  more — ” Rod’s  forehead 
cleared.  “Since. they  haven’t  got  other-space 
force-fields  they  probably  think  we  can  jump 
from  a standing  start  to  light-speed  or  better. 
That  would  seem  to  explain  our  jumping 
through  their  beam  into  their  laps!” 

Joe  swung  his  foot,  unperturbed.  "Uh- 
huh.”  Then  he  said,  “Those  little  guys  are 
pretty  good  with  tools.  How  much  time  you 
think  we  got?” 

"Not  much!  The  ships  that  escaped  have 
got  to  get  back  to  base,  wherever  that  may  be. 
They’ve  got  to  work  out  a new  trick — which 
will  probably  be  that  one — and  mount  new 
projectors  and  calibrate  them  and  then  come 
back.  But  it  won’t  take  long!” 

Joe  said  amiably,  "A  focused  tractor  works 
from  the  other-space  to  this.  You  think  it’d 
work  from  this  to  the  other  space?  An’  a 
pressor,  too?” 

“Why  not?”  Then  Rod  stared.  "Are  you 
thinking  of  a drone?  That  would  be  the 
trick,  of  course.” 

"Yeah,”  said  Joe,  grinning.  “It’d  scare 
the  pants  off  ’em  if  they  saw  the  ol’  Stellaris 
amblin’  right  up  to  ’em  through  all  the  beams 
they  could  pour  into  her,  wipin’  ’em  out 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY  55 

copious  an’  not  havin’  a whisker  curled  by  and  a very  near  similitude  of  three  or  four 


the  worst  they  could  do.  They’d  figure  they 
were  goners  sure!”  Then  he  added,  “If  we 
got  time  to  fix  it.” 

“That,”  said  Rod  sourly,  “is  the  ques- 
tion !” 

It  was  a very  urgent  question.  And  there 
were  others.  But  answers  of  a sort  were  forth- 
coming for  most.  As  for  the  time  before  a 
refurbished  pyramid-fleet  could  be  expected 
back,  the  small  people  could  promise  some 
telepathic  warning. 

As  they’d  known  of  their  race’s  death  by 
the  absence  of  any  emotions  to  perceive,  and 
of  the  coming  of  looters  on  the  planet  by  their 
scorn,  and  of  the  landing  of  the  Stellaris  by 
the  much  more  sympathetic  emotions  of  its 
occupants  at  sight  of  the  murdered  cities — so 
they  could  know  of  the  space-fleet’s  return. 

But  they  could  not  get  the  slightest  inkling 
of  any  technical  improvements  in  the  enemy 
ships  by  their  psychic  gift.  They  simply 
couldn’t  read  thoughts — only  feelings. 

Feverish'  activity  commenced.  The  small 
people  began  to  make  a double  of  the  Stellaris 
— a double  in  appearance  only.  It  was  a mere 
shell  of  thin  metal  put  over  a frame  that 
would  hold  it  in  shape.  Some  of  their  techni- 
cians began  a feverish  duplication  of  the 
fighting-device  on  the  Stellaris’  bow. 

The  arc-welders  from  the  ship  welded  that 
in  place  and  so  released  tractors  that  had 
anchored  it  Joe  ran  cables  into  the  control- 
room  and  set  up  something  like  adequate  indi- 
cators— getting  the  needed  instruments  from 
the  colony’s  small  store. 

Work  went  on  frantically  in  the  Stellaris’ 
flotation-bulges  too.  There  was  no  time  to 
build  new  sections  to  the  ship  but  the  flota- 
tion-bulges now  served  no  purpose. 

Heavily  insulated  inside,  with  heating- 
elements  provided,  they  could  accommodate 
a great  addition  to  the  hydroponic  gardens 
which  kept  the  ship’s  air  fresh.  The  small 
folk,  too,  had  plants  which  would  serve  to 
excellent  purpose.  They  would  provide  food 
in  vast  quantities. 

The  matter  of  food  for  the  first  time  was 
solved.  The  colonists  had  plenty  and  the 
colony  had  necessarily  been  staffed  with 
technologists  needed  for  its  survival.  The 
dietitians  discussed  matters  in  great  detail 
with  the  several  humans.  They  made  tests. 
They  painstakingly  experimented. 

In  two  days  from  the  Stellaris’  landing,  the 
diet  of  its  human  crew  was  wholly  bearable. 
There  was  a close  approximation  of  bread. 


different  vegetables — but  the  ones  from  the 
ship’s  air-rooms  still  tasted  better. 

There  w%s  even  a pretty  good  imitation  of 
steak,  which  the  dietitians  assured  Kit  con- 
tained all  the  needed  amino-acid  chains  the 
human  beings  required,  plus  the  fats  they 
had  begun  hungrily  to  crave.  It  was  not  ex- 
actly right — not  exactly — but  it  was  a great 
deal  better  than  they’d  had. 

THE  real  triumph,  however,  was  in  the 
technical  department.  The  little  round 
men  used  the  same  plastic  “vacuum-tube”  that 
Rod  had  salvaged  from  the  planet.  They  had 
two  others,  which  were  smaller.  They  used 
the  condenser-device  from  the  pyramid-ship 
also  for  power. 

The  imitation  Stellaris  was  an  empty  shell 
but  for  a complex,  heavily-built  device  in  its 
very  center.  That  device  did  not  include  a 
drive,  because  there  were  reinforced  plates 
on  which  the  real  Stellaris  could  focus  tractor 
and  pressor-beams,  so  that  its  pseudo-twin 
could  be  maneuvered  and  moved  from  a 
distance. 

But  in  place  of  the  drive  there  were  tiny 
beams  focused  on  devices  in  the  Stellaris 
which  performed  the  functions  of  cables.  The 
power  in  those  beams  would  vary  to  com- 
municate information  to  the  Stellaris  even 
in  other-space.  And  the  little  men  dismantled 
the  four  televisors  and  set  their  scanners  in 
the  giant  robot  they  were  constructing.  The 
receiving-screens  went  in  the  Earth-ship’s 
control-room. 

Altogether  an  incredible  lot  was  done.  The 
Earth-ship  was  no  longer  alone.  She  had  a 
fighting-ship  for  companion,  unmanned,  to  be 
sure,  but  which  had  at  least  five  times  the 
power-supply  of  the  parent  vessel  and  her 
fighting-beam  was  deadly. 

With  many  hands  to  work  on  it,  all  in- 
spired alike  by  hatred  and  equipped  with 
skill,  that  fighting-beam  was  a monstrous 
engine  for  destruction. 

The  push-pull  beams  were  ingeniously  de- 
signed to  scan  all  space  with  fifty  times  the 
rapidity  of  the  first  device  and  to  linger 
briefly  on  any  found  target. 

They  had  the  power  of  a generator  de- 
signed to  supply  a metropolis,  plus  two 
smaller  generators  intended  to  furnish  a col- 
ony not  only  with  ordinary  power  but 
the  means  of  combatting  a strange  environ- 
ment, plus  a power-unit  from  an  enemy  space- 
ship itself.  The  beam  of  this  single  ship 


STARTLING  STORIES 


5$ 


should  have  nearly  the  range  of  a fleet-broad- 
cast of  the  enemy. 

But  it  was,  of  course,  a robot. 

Two  days  passed — three — four.  Then 
there  were  twitterings  in  all  the  compart- 
ments of  the  Stellaris  as  the  round  little 
colonists  crowded  into  it.  They  carried  small 
possessions. 

They  had  already  moved  stores  and  highly 
useful  supplies  into  the  ship’s  unfinished  stor- 
age-rooms. They  were,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  abandoning  their  colony,  because 
their  entire  solar  system  would  be  blasted 
when  the  pyramid-fleet  returned.  And  the 
Stellaris  seemed  crowded. 

It  was  necessary.  Twenty  of  the  little  folk 
had  been  on  watch  since  the  beginning.  They 
sat  in  a circle,  holding  hands  in  a quaint  ab- 
sorption. 

They  were  aware,  of  course,  of  the  emo- 
tions of  their  fellows  and  of  the  humans 
around  them.  But  they  carefully  ignored 
those  sensations. 

They  must  have  felt  a curious  loneliness  as 
they  listened  or  watched — however  the  proc- 
ess could  be  described  by  which  they  waited 
for  the  sensations  of  alien  presences  which 
would  tell  of  the  return  of  the  enemy  fleet. 

It  was  coming.  It  was  coming  fast.  The 
air-lock  was  sealed.  The  Stellaris  thrust  up- 
ward on  those  invisible  stilts  which  were 
pressor-beams  and  Rod  drew  the  pseudo-ship 
after  him  as  cloud-banks  swirled  around  the 
Earth-ship. 

He  had  controls  for  this  ship,  now.  He 
swung  it  past  the  Stellaris  as  it  wallowed  in 
the  impenetrable  mist. 

He  sent  the  drone  out  of  atmosphere  into 
space. 

Warm  hands  clasped  him  urgently.  Twit- 
terings. 

They  had  meaning. 

"It  seems  that  they  come  faster  than  light. 
They  are  very  triumphant.  Their  emotions 
suggest  that  they  will  slow  to  visibility  only 
after  they  enter  this  system  and  that  they 
will  flash  through  it,  destroying  everything 
in  an  instant  without  any  possibility  of  reply.” 

"That,”  said  Rod  with  some  confidence, 
"is  what  they  think !” 

An  hour  later  he  no  longer  had  confidence. 
An  hour  later  the  Stellaris  was  beaten,  its 
drone  crippled.  It  fled  madly  through  other- 
space  while  the  pyramid-ships  systematically 
wrought  destruction  upon  all  the  planets  of 
the  yellow  sun.  If  any  life  had  remained  it 
no  longer  did  so. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
Defeat 


T FIRST,  it  did  seem  that  the  battle 
would  go  Rod’s  way.  The  drone-ship 
went  up  into  sunlit  space  from  the  cloudy 
covering  of  the  second  planet.  Hidden  in  the 
mist,  Rod  had  to  interpret  the  look  of  things 
from  the  television-screen  in  the  control- 
room. 

In  a very  real  sense  the  vision-screens 
were  superior  to  eyesight.  There  was  an  ad- 
justment of  which  the  humans  had  not 
known  by  which  the  images  could  be  en- 
larged. Any  part  of  the  transmitted  scene 
could  be  chosen  and  examined  under  high 
magnification. 

Small  round  men  watched  those  screens, 
ready  to  rip  off  for  later  study  the  lasting 
image  should  an  informative  event  occur.  The 
images  were  in  full  color  and  of  astoundingly 
fine  definition.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that 
they  were  transmitted  from  space  by  tiny 
focused  tractor  and  pressor-beams. 

The  first  scenes  were  wholly  peaceful. 
There  was  the  yellow  sun  and  there  were  the 
four  planets  in  plain  view.  Beyond  there  were 
the  cold  lights  of  a million  million  suns  of 
every  color  and  degree  of  brightness. 

As  the  pseudo-ship  rose  higher  and  higher 
from  the  cloud-banked  globe  Rod  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  actual  picturesqueness  of  inter- 
planetary space.  Always,  before,  when  he 
saw  the  stars  beyond  atmosphere,  he  had 
had  immediate  pressing  problems  of  naviga- 
tion or  of  survival. 

But  as  a color-picture  on  a vision-screen  its 
startling  beauty  and  variety  struck  home. 
Which  proved  that  Rod  was  wholly  human 
in  failing  to  notice  beauty  until  a frame  was 
put  around  it. 

Of  the  enemy  ships  there  was  as  yet  no 
sign.  The  drone  ship  was  two  thousand  miles 
out.  Three.  Five.  Then  warm  hands  touched 
Rod  and  musical  notes  in  his  ears  formed 
themselves  into  words. 

The  enemy  fleet  was  very  close.  The 
crews  of  its  many  ships  were  triumphant  by 
anticipation. 

Rod  shot  the  Stellaris  up  to  emptiness. 
For  seconds,  there  seemed  to  be  two  Earth- 
ships  in  the  void.  They  were  identical  to  all 
outward  appearance  and  to  all  seeming  they 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


were  alone  in  space. 

Suddenly,  though,  the  real  Stellaris  winked 
out  of  being.  It  had  gone  into  the  other- 
space  and  its  only  link  with  the  cosmos  of 
the  yellow  sun  was  the  tenuous  complex  grid 
of  focused  tractor  and  pressor-beams  which 
linked  the  drone-ship  to  the  Stellaris,  the 
Stellaris  in  turn  to  two  planets  of  this  solar 
system  and  to  an  unthinkably  remote  un- 
known object,  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  dark 
universe. 

These  three  anchorages  gave  the  Earth- 
ship  the  leverage  she  needed  to  maneuver 
the  drone.  The  television  eyes  in  the  drone 
gave  what  information  was  needed  to  ma- 
neuver the  drone.  The  television  eyes  in 
the  drone  gave  what  information  was  needed 
for  maneuvers  and,  of  course,  the  hidden 
inner  weapon  began  its  ceaseless  search  for 
targets  the  instant  the  Stellaris  vanished. 

The  tranquility  of  airless  space  remained. 
The  drone-ship — a mere  shell — moved  like 
a pawn  from  another  universe,  seemed  to 
come  to  a decision.  It  swung  about  in  empti- 
ness and  headed  steadily  for  the  planet  of  the 
dead  cities. 

Its  movement  was  smooth  and  even,  which 
was  in  itself  a proof  that  it  was  not  a ship 
moving  on  normal  drive.  A ship  under  power 
would  either  be  accelerating  or  slowing,  cer- 
tainly not  coasting  at  the  beginning  of  an 
interplanetary  voyage. 

The  dummy  space-craft  moved  on  and  on. 
And  then  something  appeared  magically, 
something  else  appeared  magically,  suddenly 
all  of  space  seemed  aglitter  with  shining 
metal  shapes  appearing  eerily  from  nowhere. 

The  yellow  sunlight  gleamed  on  their  sides, 
and  the  vision-screens  showed  them  by 
myriads  in  all  directions,  from  a colossal 
pyramid  almost  within  arm’s  reach  of  the 
drone — it  filled  all  of  one  television  screen — 
to  others  and  others  dwindling  through  all 
sizes  to  the  uncertainties  of  sixth-magnitude 
brightness. 

Within  a space  of  seconds  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  the  yellow  sun  was  filled  with  ships. 
There  was  no  counting  them.  There  were 
thousands  upon  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
them.  The  pyramid-race  had  massed  such  a 
fleet  as  Rod  had  not  conceived  of  to  crush 
the  one  small  vessel  which  challenged  its 
might  and  its  privilege  of  assassination. 

But  the  Stellaris  did  represent  in  fact  as 
great  a danger  to  the  murder-race  as  the 
pyramid-ships  to  it.  If  left  undestroyed  the 
Stellaris  could  multiply. 


57 

IN  THE  dark  universe  Rod  stared  in 
amazement  at  the  spectacle.  He  touched 
a single  stud,  and  the  drone-ship’s  weapon 
lashed  out  invisibily.  But  he  was  almost  dazed 
by  the  instantaneous  appearance  of  this  mon- 
strous fleet. 

“They  slowed  from  faster-than-light 
drive,”  he  said  blankly.  “That  must  be  it! 
They  traveled  in  formation,  faster  than  light  1 
And  they  all  slowed  together  and — here  they 
are ! They  took  my  trick  of  jumping  into  their 
laps  and  twisted  it  to  make  their  lap  jump 
into  me!” 

The  statement  was  exact.  In  the  previous 
fleet-encounter,  the  Stellaris  had  leaped  from 
extreme  range  instantly  into  the  midst  of  the 
pyramid-ships.  There  it  had  done  vast  dam- 
age. Now  the  enemy  fleet  had  appeared  as  if 
leaping  from  incredible  distances,  in  a forma- 
tion which  could  not  but  surround  any  space- 
ship near  this  sun,  with  every  pyramid-vessel 
spouting  deadly  radiation  from  each  of  its 
five  flat  sides. 

Against  such  a maneuver  there  could  be  no 
defense.  It  was  perfectly  designed  to  wipe 
out  all  life  in  a volume  of  space  exceeding 
the  gravitational  field  of  a sun.  Every  world 
and  every  comet,  every  asteroid  and  even 
every  stray  grain  of  meteoric  matter — all 
would  be  sterilized  instantly  before  a warning- 
device  could  operate  or  a single  relay  kick 
over.  It  was  deadliness  istelf. 

And  it  worked  perfectly.  The  drone-ship 
was  almost  crashed  by  a mopster  pyramid  as 
it  slowed  to  visibility  and  ravening  beams  of 
push-pull  killer-stuff  raged  through  it.  That 
pyramid  flung  away,  keeping  .formation  at 
many  miles  a second.  Other  pyramid-ships 
flashed  past,  each  one  pouring  its  deadly 
beams  upon  the  robot  vessel.  The  pseudo- 
Stellaris  seemed  to  falter.  Nothing  living 
could  survive  what  it  had  taken.  Nothing 
could  live  within  it.  Nothing! 

But  the  drone-ship  fought  on.  It  spun 
crazily  and  its  beam  licked  out  and  licked 
out  and  licked  out.  It  bit  savagely  into  the 
enemy  armada  as  it  poured  by,  every  ship 
flooding  the  defiant  drone  with  ever-fresh 
murderousness.  Pyramid-ships  by  dozens  and 
by  hundreds  hurtled  by  and  each  one  blasted 
it  afresh. 

And  each  one  died.  Because  whether  dead 
or  not,  a complicated  and  inordinately  power- 
ful apparatus  functioned  in  the  robot,  too. 
Three  separate  generators — plus  a power- 
supply  unit  of  the  enemy’s  own  make — thrust 
energy  eagerly  into  a push-pull  generator 


58  STARTLING  STORIES 


which  % threw  a tight  aimed  beam  at  every 
target  its  detectors  disclosed. 

That  beam  far  outranged  the  enemy 
weapons,  because  they  were  practising  satura- 
tion-beaming and  that  precluded  concentra- 
tion of  their  deadliness.  So  the  little  robot 
killed  and  killed  and  killed. 

But  its  own  lifelessness  was  certain.  Its 
far-reading  murderousness  became  known  but 
the  enemy  ships  beyond  its  range  exulted  in 
the  destruction  of  the  one  small  crew  which 
was  a danger  to  their  race. 

Those  within  range  of  its  weapon,  how- 
ever, were  past  triumph.  They  were  past 
everything.  They  were  coffins  hurtling  on- 
ward senselessly. 

In  other-space,  in  the  Stellaris’  control- 
room,  warm  hands  touched  Rod.  Twitterings 
became  speech.  "More!  Kill  more  of  them!" 

Rod  said  grimly  and  with  narrowed  eyes, 
“I  share  your  ambition.  But  this  is  bigger 
than  I expected  They’re  regrouping  now  and 
they  must  know  by  this  time  that  the  beam 
that’s  killing  them  is  working  by  itself.  Every 
one  in  range  is  knocked  off  and  the  others 
are  ducking.” 

Kit  said,  staring  from  one  to  another  of 
the  vision-screens,  “A  terrible  lot  of  them 
must  have  been  hit,  Rod.  Look  at  the  way 
they — ” 

"There’s  a terrible  lot  left,”  he  said  bit- 
terly. “We’ve  already  knocked  off  more  than 
were  in  the  entire  other  fleet,  and  they  know 
they’ve  been  hurt.  But  look  how  many  are 
left!  I’m  worried!” 

HE  SENT  the  drone  belligerently  at  the 
ships  which  now  drew  back  from  it. 
But  in  the  space  about  the  yellow  sun  a 
curiously  dramatic  picture  formed.  The 
fleet  which  had  already  made  sure  that  no 
life  remained  on  four  worlds  and  the  space 
about  them  was  halting  in  its  plunge. 

Scurrying  motions  took  place.  Ships  whose 
previous  course  would  have  taken  them 
closer  to  the  drone-ship  now  frantically  scur- 
ried out  of  her  way  but  not  all  of  them  suc- 
ceeded. 

Yet  despite  Rod’s  furious  working  of  con- 
trols in  other-space  there  presently  developed 
a regrouping  of  the  untold  thousands  of  an- 
gular enemies.  The  pyramid-ships  formed  a 
titanic  hollow  sphere— and  the  drone-ship 
was  in  its  very  center. 

The  drone-ship  plunged  and  spun  and 
plunged  again.  It  succeeded  only  in  violent 
jerkings  and  the  hollow  sphere  remained — re- 


mained beyond  the  farthest  limit  of  the  robot’s 
range. 

In  other-space  Rod  scowled.  “They’ve  got 
pressors  on  it,”  he  said  savagely.  “All  the 
whole  fleet.  Massed  pressors — as  they  massed 
their  killer-beam  before.  They’re  holding  it 
still  and  away  from  all  of  them.  I haven’t 
got  power  enough  to  push  it  against  all  that ! 
Looks  bad  !■” 

He  kept  the  drone-ship  trying  frantically 
to  break  free  but  he  watched  the  vision- 
screens.  Time  passed.  Twitterings  sounded 
behind  him,  warm  hands  touched  him.  The 
shrill  sounds  became  intelligible. 

" They  will  try  to  tow  it  somewhere.  Per- 
haps to  their  home  planet 

"That,”  said  Rod,  “I  would  like  to  see! 
But  I don’t  think  they  will.  They  build  gad- 
gets in  their  ships  to  destroy  their  star-maps 
when  a ship  goes  dead.  They  might  suspect 
us  of  something  even  more  drastic.  And  if 
we’d  thought  of  it  we  would  have!  I don’t 
know  what  they’ll  try  but  things  could  look 
a lot  better  than  they  do.” 

Time  passed.  Any  action  among  the  ships 
of  the  hollow  globe,  of  course,  was  invisible 
because  of  the  distance.  Rod  waited  grimly, 
keeping  the  robot  still  plunging  as  if  unrea- 
soning mechanism  only  were  at  work.  But 
there  was  something  still  to  be  learned. 

The  pyramid-folk,  probably  for  the  first 
time  in  their  history,  had  met  intelligent 
and  deadly  opposition  to  their  career  of 
murder.  The  opposition  had  been  costly.  But 
they  had  learned  from  it.  Much  too  well  and 
much  too  much!  They’d  englobed  and  now 
held  helpless  a much  more  deadly  fighting- 
machine  than  the  Stellaris  had  been  only  a 
few  days  since. 

Rod  drew  in  his  breath  sharply.  A little 
knot  of  angular  ships  sped  out  from  the 
massed  armada.  It  went  swiftly  toward  the 
helplessly  plunging  little  ship  in  the  midst  of 
all  its  enemies. 

Warm  hands.  More  twitterings. 

"More  of  them  die?" 

“Hardly,”  said  Rod  angrily.  “They  learn 
too  quickly ! They  know  nothing  can  be  alive 
on  our  ship,  though  still  it  fights.  So  they’ve 
set  up  robot-controls  on  some  of  their  ships 
and — we’ll  see  what  they  do. 

"They  want  to  look  at  the  dead  crew  they 
think  is  inside,  so  they  can  be  sure  to  mas- 
sacre the  race  that  bred  it.  They’d  also  like 
to  have  that  fighting-beam,  which  is  better 
than  theirs.  And  I don’t  want  them  to  have 
it!” 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


59 


ALREADY  he  had  multiplied  the  dead- 
lines of  the.alien  race  by  forcing  them 
to  devise  this  new  saturation-beaming  of  a 
whole  solar  system.  But  if  each  of  their  ships, 
in  addition,  acquired  a fighting-beam  as  dead- 
ly as  the  robot’s  that  would  be  more  serious 
still. 

The  moving  remotely-controlled  pyramid- 
ships  took  position  on  every  side  of  the  dum- 
my craft.  Its  self-directing  weapon  flooded 
them  with  lethal  push-pull  radiation.  It  did 
not  affect  them.  They  arranged  themselves  in 
a geometric  pattern  about  it.  They  swayed  a 
little  in  their  respective  positions. 

Rod,  watching  through  the  television  eyes, 
said  softly,  “Ah-h-h!  They’ve  got  pressors 
fanning  out!  They  push  against  each  other 
but  mostly  against  our  double.  Now  they’ll 
move  and  take  her  where  they  please.  But 
the  fleet’ll  have  to  cut  off  its  beams!” 

He  released  the  directional  controls  on  the 
locked  beams,  so  the  little  dummy  ship  could 
be  moved  where  the  enemy  wished.  It  moved. 
Its  robot  escort  set  out  for  the  nearest  planet, 
which  was  the  world  of  dead  cities. 

“They’ll  ground  it,”  said  Rod,  “and  hold 
it  against  the  ground  and  hammer  it  with 
another  robot  ship  until  they  crack  it  and 
knock  out  its  beam.  Then  they’ll  look  it  over. 
No!” 

Another  ship  came  streaking  out  of  the 
spherical  formation.  It  had  taken  longer, 
perhaps,  to  fit  out  with  more  accurate  remote 
control.  It  swept  in  a great  curve,  matched 
speed  and  course  with  the  small  convoy,  and 
went  along  with  them  for  seconds.  The 
dummy  Earth-ship  seemed  to  struggle  me- 
chanically. 

Then  there  was  a sudden  flash  of  light.  A 
thin,  concentrated  beam  of  pure  flame  darted 
across  emptiness.  It  lanced  through  the  hull 
of  the  Stellaris’  substitute  and  on  beyond  for 
miles.  The  flame  flashed  again.  Another  punc- 
ture. A third. 

In  other-space,  a television-screen  went 
dead.  There  was  a sudden  crashing  noise.  A 
locked  beam  going  from  one  universe  to 
another  went  crazy  as  the  object  on  which  it 
was  focused  ceased  to  exist  save  as  blue- 
white  vapor.  The  robot  fighting-ship,  help- 
less now,  was  being  systematically  riddled 
with  holes.  The  process  would  keep  up  until 
its  weapon  went  off  and  examination  by  living 
things  became  possible. 

“We’re  licked,”  said  Rod  coldly.  “They’re 
smarter  than  I thought.  They’ve  got  us 
beaten.” 


He  threw  over  one  switch  after  another. 
The  Stellaris  surged  forward  in  the  dark 
space  where  stars  were  not. 

“Rod,”  asked  Kit  anxiously.  “You  mean 
we  can’t  do  anything  but  run  away?” 

“Nothing  else,”  he  told  her.  “We  simply 
can’t  handle  that  fleet.  We  can  play  heck 
with  it — we  have — but  it’s  just  too  big  for 
us.  So  we  depart  for  new  pastures.” 

Agitated  twitterings  came  from  all  about 
him.  There  was  one  of  the  little  folk  touch- 
ing Kit  for  the  ability  to  understand  what 
Rod  said.  He  repeated  the  confession  of  de- 
feat. The  others  made  grief-stricken  sounds. 

“We’re  still  safe  ourselves,”  said  Rod  over 
his  shoulder.  “We’re  safer  probably,  than 
anybody  else  in  the  galaxy.  And  I’m  not  leav- 
ing our  dummy  for  them  to  paw  over.  We’ve 
just  got  to  start  all-  over  again  in  some  new 
fashion.  The  only  question  is,  what  the  heck 
can  that  other  fashion  be?” 

He  cut  off  the  robot’s  weapon  and  watched 
the  television-screens.  Suddenly,  all  the 
screens  went  black.  There  were  flute-like 
wailings  from  the  little  folk. 

“Tell  ’em,  Kit,”  said  Rod.  “Remember  we 
made  our  force-fields  take  in  a half-mile 
sphere  of  air  outside  the  ship  when  we  wanted 
to  go  over  that  other  pyramid  ? And  remem- 
ber how  I sprang  the  booby-trap  before  that 
by  tying  a string  to  my  coat  and  pulling  it 
into  this  space  with  a focused  tractor?  And 
how  I sent  you  a note  from  the  planet  when 
you  were  in  this  space?" 

“I  remember,”  admitted  Kit.  “But  I don’t 
see — ” 

“A  focused  tractor  can  pull  something  out 
of  normal  space  to  this,  if  there’s  a force-field 
big  enough  to  hold  it.  So  I pulled  our  dummy- 
ship  into  the  dark  universe.” 

There  was  a resounding  crash  against  the 
Stellaris’  hull. 

“Here  it  is,”  said  Rod.  “Now  we’ll  get  to 
blazes  away  from  here  and  figure  out  what 
next." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
New  Tactics 


FOR  hour  after  hour  the  Stellaris  plunged 
blindly  through  the  utter  blackness  of 
other-space  with  its  battered,  shattered  robot- 
twin  in  tow.  Rod  pulled  the  ship  away  from 


STARTLING  STORIES 


SO 

the  system  of  the  yellow  sun  by  the  tractor 
long  ago  fixed  on  an  unseen  object  in  dark- 
ness’ deepest  heart. 

He  could  have  used  the  jet-drive  but  there 
would  have  been  a trail  of  vapor — tenuous 
enough,  but  possibly  followable — when  the 
ejected  molecules  of  gas  fell  back  to  normal- 
ity beyond  the  ship’s  force-fields.  Even  then 
the  Stellaris  would  be  unreachable  but  there 
was  no  point  in  giving  the  enemy  any  clues 
at  all  to  the  nature  of  its  security. 

As  time  went  on  and  acceleration  continued 
the  ship  reached  the  speed  of  light  and  mul- 
tiples of  it.  Inertia  had  quite  other  values 
here  than  in  the  inhabited  universe.  But 
whatever  they  pulled  toward  was  solid  and 
Rod  checked  its  distance  by  sending  pressors 
to  strike  it,  estimating  their  time  of  travel  to 
the  strange  object. 

The  small  round  folk  talked  interminably 
among  themselves.  Joe  the  electrician,  passing 
by  an  especially  intent  conclave,  was  halted 
and  hands  laid  upon  him.  After  seconds  of 
listening  he  sat  down  absorbedly. 

Half  an  hour  later  Rod  was  down  in  the 
engine-room  working  with  tractors  and  pres- 
sors that  had  no  wired  connections  to  the 
control-room.  Joe  came  in  search  of  him. 

“Hey!”  said  Joe.  “Those  little  guys,  they 
got  an  idea  about  the  way  the  pyramid-ships 
go  faster  than  light!” 

“Yes?” 

“They  got  it  figured  out  mathematical,” 
said  Joe,  “that  there  could  be  a kinda  stuff 
that  ain’t  natural.  That  hadn’t  oughta  exist 
but  could  get  made — or  maybe  could  make 
itself  in  a star  or  something.  It  wouldn’t — uh 
— react  to  our  magnetism  an’  it  wouldn’t  be 
pulled  by  gravity  or  anything  like  that.” 

“It  ought  to  fall  into  other-space,”  ob- 
jected Rod. 

“Only,”  Joe  explained,”  it  could  be  alloyed 
with  natural  stuff  when  it  got  made.  And  if 
they  had  that  kinda  stuff  a little  of  it  would 
mix  with  a lot  of  other  stuff  and  y’could 
make  a ship  of  it.  And  that  phoney  stuff,  it 
would  absorb  gravity  an’  magnetism  an’  so 
on  an’  make  it  damp  itself  out. 

“That’s  why  it  wouldn’t  be  pulled  by  it. 
But  the  energy’d  have  to  go  somewhere  so 
it’d  show  up  as  motion.  That’s  what  they  say 
and  they  say  the  figures  prove  it,”  he  added 
hastily.  “It’d  be  like  soaking  up  heat  an’ 
getting  electricity.  Y’see  ?” 

“Partly,”  said  Rod.  Something  clicked  in  a 
pressor-coil.  He  looked  at  the  distance-ad- 
justment on  the  pressor-beam  mount.  He 


compared  it  with  a similar  guide  on  a tractor 
mounting.  He  began,  very  delicately,  to  vary 
the  two  together  so  that  neither  was  sub- 
jected to  excessive  strain. 

“So  all  they’d  have  to  do  would  be  to  line 
up  the  motion  an’  they’d  have  a whale  of  a 
drive!”  said  Joe.  “Actually,  these  guys  say 
that  if  you  got  the  stuff  movin’  fast  enough 
it’d  start  movin’  faster  on  its  own  account. 
They  say  those  pyramid-ships  could  have  that 
stuff  in  ’em,  in  all  the  metal  an’  such. 

“So  that  all  they  have  to  do  is  pile  on  their 
drive-jets  until  they’re  goin’  fast  enough  an’ 
they  pop  into  all  kindsa  speed.  It’s  like  run- 
nin’  fast  enough  to  catch  a train.  Once  you  got 
holda  it,  you  ain’t  runnin’,  you’re  ridin’. 

“Only  the  train  they  catch  is  runnin’  all 
ways  at  once.  Whichever  way  they  want  to 
go,  when  they’  goin’  fast  enough  all  of  a sud- 
den they’re  ridin’  ’m  an’  how ! Then  all  they 
got  to  do  is  slow  down  when  they  want  to  get 
off.” 

Rod  straightened  up  and  stared.  Then  he 
bent  over  again. 

“There’s  more  to  it.  It  has  to  neutralize 
increase  in  mass  with  velocity  and  a few  little 
things  like  that,”  he  observed,  “But  it  does 
make  a certain  amount  of  sense.” 

“Yeah?  But—” 

“Ask  ’em  to  figure  out  two  other  things,” 
said  Rod.  “One  is  how  those  rats  broad- 
cast power,  if  smashing  the  generator  will 
cut  it  off  and  how  fast  the  cut-off  will  spread. 
And  the  other — I’m  asking  them  to  dig  into 
it  because  I gave  them  the  theory  and  they’ve 
time  to  work  it  out  and  it’ll  need  time  and 
sound  thinking — the  other  is  how  to  make 
force-fields  that  will  drop  matter  from  this 
space  into  ours. 

“We  can  take  stuff  from  our  space  and 
drop  it  into  this  and  hold  it  here.  When  we 
cut  out  fields  it  drops  back.  Now  I’m  going 
to  want  to  reverse  that  process  and  I think 
I could  do  it  in  time  but  I’m  going  quietly 
mad  with  stuff  that  doesn’t  need  that  much 
brains  and  is  even  more  urgent.” 

HE  went  back  to  his  pressor  and  tractor- 
beams,  while  Joe  returned  to  the  con- 
ference of  the  small  people  with  a puzzled 
frown  on  his  face. 

The  ship  was  crowded  but  the  colonists 
were  civilized  and  likeable.  They  crowded 
themselves  to  leave  room  so  the  humans 
wouldn’t  feel  crowded.  Their  women  zest- 
fully took  over  some  of  the  looted  fabrics 
and  presently  presented  Kit  with  a costume 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


faithfully  copying  the  cut  and  fit  of  the  one 
she  wore  but  breathtaking — in  part  because 
of  their  use  of  some  of  the  art -objects  of 
unknown  origin.  The  other  four  girls  in- 
stantly begged  to  be  similarly  attired. 

The  men  conferred  and  politely  asked  leave 
to  use  an  empty  store-room  for  a laboratory. 
There  they  conferred  endlessly  and  one  of 
them  made  computations  on  an  extraordinar- 
ily simple  machine  from  the  colony  and  then 
worked  painstakingly  with  Joe  to  transfer  the 
equations  from  his  notation  to  human  mathe- 
matical terminology. 

Rod  juggled  his  beams  and  juggled  them 
and  adjusted  them  ever  more  delicately.  In 
the  end  the  Stellaris  made  what  might  be 
called  a landing  on  something  large  and 
solid  in  the  depths  of  other-space.  Lights 
thrown  out  the  ports  disclosed  a rough,  seem- 
ingly curdled  surface  of  a dark  and  ap- 
parently metallic  substance. 

Its  size  was  unguessable  but  it  was  huge. 
It  had,  apparently,  no  gravitational  attrac- 
tion for  the  ship— or  the  drone — and  it  was 
plainly  not  a type  of  matter  normally  found 
in  the  universe  of  stars. 

When  Rod  had  made  tests,  he  called  a 
conference  of  all  on  board.  He  put  his  hands 
on  the  colony  leader  so  that  all  could  under- 
stand him. 

“I  want  to  make  a report,”  he  told  them 
grimly.  “We  were  licked  in  our  last  en- 
counter with  the  pyramid-ships.  But  we’re 
vastly  better  off  than  we  were.  Putting  extra 
vegetation  in  the  flotation-bulges  has  kept 
our  air  pure.  We’ve  plenty  of  power  and 
plenty  of  food.  I consider  that  we  can  live 
indefinitely  in  this  ship  while  we  hunt  for  a 
planet  we  can  live  on. 

“We  can  possibly  establish  a colony  the 
pyramid-folk  will  never  find.  Certainly  we 
can  now  build  more  ships — given  materials — 
which  can  elude  if  not  defeat  those  fiends.  I 
don’t  think  it  likely  that  we  can  ever  find 
our  way  back  to  Earth.” 

A twittering  interrupted  him.  A round 
little  man  spoke.  Rod  understood  but  Joe — 
also  touching  one  of  the  little  folk — translated 
truculently. 

“He  says  he’s  been  askin’  all  of  us  all  we 
knew  about  the  stars  we  see  from  Earth. 
He  says  he  ain’t  sure,  but  he  thinks  there’s  a 
chance  he  can  pilot  us  back  to  Earth.” 

There  were  fifteen  humans  on  the  ship. 
Twelve  of  them — Rod  and  Kit  and  Joe  were 
silent — made  a lot  of  noise.  When  it  ended, 
Rod  went  on  doggedly.  “But  back  on  Earth 


61 

they  didn’t  believe  in  danger  from  the  pyra- 
mid-people. Whether  they’ll  believe  us  now 
or  not,  I don’t  know.  Certainly  it’ll  take 
time  for  them  to  get  ready  to  fight — if  they 
do. 

“But  we’re  ready  to  fight  now.  We  just 
got  licked,  and  badly,  but  we  did  so  much 
damage  that  there’s  a chance  the  pyramid- 
people  leaders  will  decide  to  end  their  danger 
immediately  by  wiping  out  all  races  that  even 
promise  to  achieve  civilization.  That’s  what 
I’m  afraid  of.  If  we  go  on  fighting  it’s  going 
to  be  bad  but — ” 

He  stopped,  uncertain  what  to  say  next. 
Joe  stood  up. 

“Anybody  that  argues,”  he  said  belliger- 
ently, “is  goin’  to  get  his  head  knocked  off. 
I seen  the  dead  bodies  on  that  planet.” 

There  was  silence.  Presently  Rod  said, 
“Then  I suppose  we’ll  get  to  work.  We’re 
going  to  make  a new  weapon  and  then  we’re 
going  to  find  out  where  those  pyramid-peo- 
ple have  their  home  planet.  Then  we’re 
going  to  smash  it  and  them.  And  we’ll  all 
probably  get  gray  hair  in  the  process.” 

There  was  no  discussion.  Later  the  colony 
leader  of  the  little  people  came  to  Rod  and 
touched  him  and  asked  earnestly,  "Why  did 
you  discuss ? Are  you  not  the  leader ? Why 
did  you  explain  and  why  did  your  friend 
threaten f” 

“That,”  said  Rod  drily,  “is  what  we  call 
democracy.” 


CHAPTER  XV 
The  Rat  Trap 


THERE  was  a dark  universe  unguessable 
hundreds  of  millions  of  light-years  in  ex- 
tent. There  was  a wandering  thing  in  it,  a 
small  thing  by  comparison  with  the  heavenly 
bodies  of  star-studded  space.  In  the  Earth’s 
solar  system  it  would  have  been  an  asteroid, 
perhaps. 

It  was  barely  eight  miles  through.  Its 
mass  couhi  not  be  measured  because  it  was 
not  a substance  which  normally  existed  in 
normal  space.  Perhaps  it  could  be  created 
there.  Perhaps  it  was.  Possibly  it  was  some 
unimaginable  end-product  which  remained 
when  the  neutronium  core  of  a dwarf  star 
decayed  and  ceased  to  be  matter  that  the 
other  universe  could  retain. 


62 


STARTLING  STORIES 


Gravity  did  not  affect  it.  Magnetism  did 
not  draw  it.  It  had  no  electric  conductivity 
nor  did  it  change  the  dielectric  constant  of 
emptiness.  But  it  was  matter  of  a sort  and 
it  could  be  alloyed  with  metal. 

Rod  verified  that  fact  with  samples  taken 
in  through  the  air-lock  while  tractors  held 
the  air  from  flowing  out.  He  gave  it  to  the 
small  folk,  saying  that  it  was  probably  the 
substance  they  had  deduced  from  theory 
could  exist. 

Their  theory  suggested  other  tests,  which 
they  made.  They  went  feverishly  to  work  to 
make  alloys.  They  tore  apart  the  tattered 
robot-ship  with  beams  which  were  stronger 
than  the  metal  they  required. 

When  the  alloy  was  not  too 'high  in  metal 
from  normal  space  they  found  that  it  was 
self-welding.  Two  bits  of  it,  pressed  together, 
united  solidly  with  the  strength  of  a weld. 

The  small  men  joyously  improvised  a 
process  which  turned  out  that  alloy  as  a 
foil — and  the ’painters  on  the  ship  worked 
at  their  trade  for  the  first  time  since  leaving 
Earth.  They  coated  one  side  of  the  foil  with 
paint  so  that  it  could  be  stored  in  rolls  with- 
out welding  itself  back  to  solidity. 

Stored  it  was — placed  in  storage  where  no 
thief  or  race  of  thieves  imaginable  could  come 
upon  it.  It  was  piled  on  the  shattered  rem- 
nant of  the  drone-ship’s  plating,  anchored  to 
the  dark-space  object  by  a tractor  with  a field 
of  its  own  to  retain  it  and  a generator  from 
the  colony  to  keep  it  in  being. 

There  were  two  other  generators  avail- 
able. They  had  been  on  the  drone.  There 
was  also  the  pyramid-ship’s  power  device. 
The  small  men  had  taken  that  apart  and 
found  a surface-treatment  of  the  metal,  which 
to  them  explained  everything.  They  essayed 
to  give  the  theory  to  Rod  but  he  was  im- 
patient. 

“You  say  it’s  a matter  of  a spherical  field 
practically  the  diameter  of  the  galaxy,  with 
constants  calling  for  the  assumption  that 
space  is  elastic  and  can  be  compressed.  All 
right.  It  warps  so  it  must  be  elastic.  If  it 
can  be  compressed  the  doppler  effect  on  is- 
land-universe spectra  simply  proves  distance 
and  not  retreat  but  let  it  go. 

“That’s  all  right — but  when  you  talk  about 
the  selective  flow  of  power  in  a force-field  to 
surface-treated  plates  because  of  molecular 
changes  created  by  the  treatment — ” Rod 
shrugged. 

"I’ll  want  to  know  it  sometime.  The 
main  thing  is  that  the  whole  field  will  go 


off  instantly  the  generator’s  smashed.  I’m 
not  going  to  try  to  understand  right  now. 
I’m  already  trying  to  get  some  of  your  math 
and  my  head  is  creaking  with  the  load.” 

He  was  trying  to  check  the  calculations 
on  a device  the  colonists  were  building  in 
their  store-room  lab.  It  would,  they  assured 
him,  create  a force-field  large  enough  to  shift 
the  entire  asteroid  into  normal  space. 

The  mathematical  statements  had  been 
translated  by  Joe  and  he  had — as  an  elec- 
trician working  on  modern  equipment — a 
mathematical  training  which  once  would  have 
implied  a master  of  arts  degree.  But  this  math 
was  beyond  him  and  he  translated  it  blindly. 
Rod  was  having  trouble  with  it. 

In  the  end  he  accepted  what  was  not  wholly 
clear  because  what  was  clear  was  so  evidently 
right.  He  wanted  to  get  at  the  Stellaris’ 
force-field  generators  again.  He  expanded 
them  to  their  absolute  maximum  size.  At  the 
new  adjustment,  the  ship  would  carry  a four- 
mile  sphere  of  normal  space  into  the  dark 
universe  when  the  field  went  on. 

Then  he  went  back  to  normal  space  with 
the  ship.  She  had  then  been  in  the  dark 
universe  for  a long  long  time  and  humans 
and  small  people  alike  crowded  to  the  ports 
to  look  at  the  stars.  It  was  strange  to  see 
the  hunger  of  both  races  to  look  at  far-dis- 
tant suns  which  now  so  peculiarly  meant 
home  to  them. 

HE’D  told  Kit  his  immediate  plans  and 
she  was  ready  with  half  a dozen  of  the 
little  folk,  all  solemnly  holding  hands.  The 
Stellaris  floated  at  random  amid  the  stars. 
Twitterings. 

"They  say,  Rod,”  reported  Kit  shakily, 
"that  there  aren’t  any  pyramid-people 
around.  Space  is  empty  around  here.  It’s 
nice,  isn’t  it?” 

“Pleasant  but  not  what  we  need,”  said 
Rod.  "We’ll  try  again.” 

The  jet-drive  went  on  and  the  ship  went 
into  dark  space  and  came  out  again  light- 
years  away.  The  little  folk  solemnly  strained 
for  a sense  of  the  emotions  of  the  murderers. 
Nothing.  A second  dive  and  a leap  of  light- 
years  and  a third  listening  search.  A fourth — 
Excited  twitterings.  Hands  touched  Rod. 
“'There  are  many  of  the  murder-race t 
Many!” 

“Which  way?”  demanded  Rod.  "Can  you 
tell?  Do  they  know  we’re  here?” 

More  flute-like  noises. 

“They  are  bored.  They  know  nothing. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


They  are — they  are  yonder.” 

A small  unhuman  hand  gestured.  Little 
folk  watched  avidly  as  Rod  sent  a tractor- 
beam  with  infinitesimal  power  groping  for 
the  space-ships  the  small  people  perceived. 

“Got  the  line,"  he  reported.  “Tell  me 
if  they’re  warned." 

He  swung  the  Stellaris.  Jet-drive.  A dive 
and  instant  emergence  from  blackness.  Noth- 
ing. The  switches  crashed  and  crashed 
again.  The  enemy  ships  were  invisible.  Their 
presence  had  been  detected  by  the  psychic 
sense  of  the  small  people  and  verified  by 
tractor. 

"Very  near,”  said  the  high-pitched  notes. 
“Very  near!  Very,  very  near.  They  are 
frightened!  Quick!” 

Rod  sent  the  ship  ahead  in  a desperate  leap 
and  the  field  closed  in.  The  fully-expanded 
field  was  like  a gigantic  net  which  closed 
about  the  Earth-ship. 

There  was  a shrill  uproar.  The  little  folk 
clamored,  “They  are  frightened!  They  are 
helpless!  They  do  not  know  what  has  hap- 
pened!" 

Rod  grimly  and  squeamishly  changed  the 
controls  on  the  Stellaris’  bow-weapon. 

“I  never  could  kill  a rat  in  a trap,”  he  said 
savagely.  “Here!  You  do  it !” 

He  put  the  warm,  non-human  hand  of  the 
leader  of  the  little  round  colonists  upon  a 
switch. 

“Throw  it — and  they’ll  die.” 

There  was  a tumult  of  shrill  voices.  The 
Stellaris  had  winked  out  of  other-space  and 
instantly  vanished  into  it  again.  But  with 
her  in  her  vanishing  had  gone  the  contents 
of  a four-mile  sphere  of  emptiness.  As  once 
she  had  carried  air  to  the  dark  universe,  now 
she  carried — nothing,  on  the  first  attempts. 

But  this  time  the  force-field  had  enclosed 
a pyramid-ship  inside  it  with  the  Stellaris. 
Once  before  such  a vessel  had  been  dragged 
into  the  illimitable  dark  but  the  crew  of  that 
one  had  been  dead.  The  crew  of  this  was  yet 
alive. 

The  little  folk  shrilled  at  one  another  in  a 
terrible  joy.  Their  leader  trembled  with  his 
satisfaction  as  he  savagely  threw  the  switch 
which  sent  a beam  of  utter  deadliness  into  the 
captive  enemy. 

It  was  a trivial  payment  for  the  millions 
upon  millions  of  their  fellows  but  the  small 
people  were  filled  with  impassioned  joy.  They 
felt — they  felt! — the  murderers  of  their  race 
blasted  out  of  life. 

“The  answer,"  said  Rod,  seeing  Kit’s 


63 

expression,  “is  that  their  power-supply  only 
works  in  normal  space.  We  ought  to  know 
that.  So  when  I snatched  them  out  of  the 
natural  universe  into  this  one  their  power 
went,  their  weapons  were  useless  and  I think 
that  even  the  gadget  that  destroys  their  star- 
maps  failed  to  work.  At  least,  that’s  what 
I’m  after!” 

He  went  to  the  air-lock,  in  which  were 
mounted  tractor  and  pressor-beams  and  a 
powerful  mounted  light.  With  tractors  the 
enemy  ship  was  brought  alongside  the 
Stellaris.  The  two  air-locks  were  lined  up. 

And — this  was  the  ticklish  part — while 
tractors  again  kept  air  from  escaping  Rod  and 
a welder  cut  through  into  the  pyramid-ship 
and  went  into  the  revolting  reek  which  was 
its  atmosphere. 

WITH  hand-flashes  Rod  and  those  who 
would  help  him  made  their  way  to 
where  only  molten  metal  and  charred  paper 
had  remained  on  the  other  ship  they’d 
searched.  But  here — here  were  shining  un- 
familiar instruments  and  infinitely  ingenious 
star-maps  and  all  that  could  be  needed  to 
navigate  a pyramid-ship  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  galaxy. 

Rod  had  Joe  and  two  others  load  them- 
selves down.  He  himself  carried  precious 
maps.  They  returned  to  the  Stellaris.  A 
dozen  of  the  small  men  followed  back  to  the 
ship  from  the  blasted  enemy.  But  it  was  sig- 
nificant that  not  one  of  the  round  men  carried 
a single  object  as  a trophy.  Their  hatred  of 
the  killers  of  their  race  was  too  great  to  let 
them  look  at  even  a memento  without  rage. 

The  Stellaris  headed  back  through  dark- 
space  for  the  asteroid  of  dark-space  matter. 
Rod  and  the  colony  mathematicians  pored 
over  the  maps  and  astrogation  instruments. 
But  they  knew  the  principles  by  which  such 
things  must  work  and  the  secrets  came  easily. 

By  the  time  they  were  near  the  asteroid 
the  matter  was  settled.  Rod  returned  to  nor- 
mal space  and  checked  his  observations.  The 
colony  power-technician  by  then  had  worked 
out  a field-flow  instrument  to  detect  the 
power-field  of  the  enemy  and  to  locate  its 
center.  His  observation  checked  with  the 
star-maps.  Everything  checked. 

The  ship  was  filled  with  fluting  sounds. 
The  round  small  colonists  were  strangely 
moved.  They  knew  that  their  dead  cities, 
their  dead  world,  their  dead  race  would  soon 
be  avenged.  But  Rod,  touching  hands  for 
technical  reasons,  heard  distressed  discus- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


sions  in  the  back-ground. 

The  small  people  had  carved  vengeance 
with  a fierceness  close  to  insanity,  as  long  as 
they  had  little  hope  of  it.  But  now  they  had 
savored  it.  They  had  known  fully  the  help- 
less, screaming  panic  of  the  crew  which  had 
had  to  be  killed. 

It  could  not  be  spared. 

Descriptions  of  either  of  the  two  races  in 
the  Stellaris  could  not  be  allowed  to  go  back 
to  the  leaders  of  the  pyramid-folk.  So  the 
pyramid-ship’s  crew  had  to  die.  But  a dis- 
cussion went  on  in  the  Earth-ship  with 
mounting  distress. 

To  destroy  a race  because  it  had  destroyed 
one’s  own  might  be  just  and  proper — but  it 
made  one  a murderer  too. 

And  the  small  people  were  an  inherently 
gentle  folk. 

The  preparations  for  moving  the  dark  as- 
teroid to  normal  space  were  almost  complete 
when  something  like  a deputation  of  the  col- 
onists came  to  Rod.  The  round  men  were 
very  unhappy,  but  very  much  in  earnest.  Rod 
touched  hands  and  the  shrill  sounds  about 
him  were  somehow  very  solemn. 

“We  ask,”  said  the  leader  unhappily,  "that 
we  be  taken  to  a near  planet  we  find  on  the 
alien’s  star-maps.  As  we  read  the  maps,  we 
should  be  able  to  live  there.  We  owe  you  our 
lives  and  any  hope  our  race  can  have  of  sur- 
viving through  us  and  our  children. 

"If  you  ask  it,  we  will  remain  and  help  you 
even  to  the  destruction  of  the  murderers  of 
our  kin.  But  unless  you  ask  we  prefer  to  try 
to  build  up  a new  civilization  without  protec- 
tion. We  have  tasted  revenge — and  we  cto 
not  like  it.” 

Rod  regarded  them  steadily.  “I  don’t  like 
killing,  either,”  he  said  gr.imly.  “I  weakened 
just  now.  I gave  the  task  to  one  of  you.  But 
I am  wondering  now  if  a fleet  may  not  be  go- 
ing through  one  solar  system  after  another, 
wiping  out  the  life  to  be  found  there. 

“I  am  wondering  if  such  a fleet  has  reached 
my  home  planet  yet.  I am  wondering  if  the 
fifteen  of  us  humans  on  this  ship  are  the  only 
human  beings  still  alive — as  you  are  the  only 
living  members  of  your  race.  I don’t  want  to 
leave  my  race  in  danger  for  one  instant  if  it’s 
living. 

“And  if  it’s  dead,”  he  added  harshly,  "I 
want  it  to  be  avenged  before  I find  it  out ! I 
don’t  want  to  keep  on  living  while  I hate  crea- 
tures I have  spared.  But  I’ll  take  you  to  the 
planet  you’ve  chosen.  We  need  some  fresh 
observations  anyhow.” 


CHAPTER  XVI 
Nova! 


1 EVERYTHING  was  quite  ready  when 
'll  the  Stellaris  went  a bare  thousand 
miles  from  the  strange  thing  it  had  made  of 
an  asteroid,  and  returned  to  normal  space. 
Then,  with  the  jet-drive  to  set  its  course  and 
establish  a velocity,  it  dived  back  to  darkness 
to  increase  that  velocity,  and  came  out  yet 
again  into  the  space  where  suns  flamed 
grandly,  surrounded  by  their  families  of  plan- 
ets. They  were  near  their  destination. 

This  also  was  a sol-type  sun  and  it  had 
seven  planets.  The  nearest  was  red-hot  from 
its  proximity  to  its  sun.  The  second  was  an 
arid  waste,  the  third  a small  and  pock-marked 
cinder.  But  the  fourth  was  green,  with  great 
oceans  and  clouds  floating  above  its  conti- 
nents and  ice-caps  at  its  poles. 

"There  is  a race  here,”  said  apologetic 
twitterings  in  Rod’s  ear.  "It  is  still  barbarous, 
knowing  metals  but  using  no  power,  accord- 
ing to  the  markings  we  deciphered  on  the 
star-map.  It  will  be  long  before  it  should 
cause  the  pyramid-people  concern.  Perhaps 
we  may  help  and  guide  the  people.” 

Rod  said  nothing.  He  made  a planetary 
approach  with  something  approaching  pro- 
fessional skill.  In  hardly  more  than  minutes 
the  Stellaris  settled  down  into  atmosphede. 
“Rod!”  cried  Kit.  “A  city!” 

She  pointed  and  Rod  swung  the  ship — so 
unwieldy  in  air — into  a near  approach.  It 
reached  the  city.  It  hovered  over  the  city.  It 
was  a city,  past  question.  Its  ways  were  paved 
with  quarried  stone,  its  buildings  were  of 
massive,  cyclopean  architecture  and  it  was 
barbarously  magnificent. 

But  it  was  definitely  barbarous.  The  great 
buildings  were  palaces  and  temples.  The 
people  lived  in  small  structures,  most  of 
which  plainly  had  gardens  attached  to  them. 
There  were  cultivated  fields  and  pasture- 
lands  outside  it.  There  were  crude  wooden 
ships  tied  to  the  wharves  where  a river  wan- 
dered through  it. 

As  the  Stellaris  descended  Rod  saw  half- 
furled  sails.  Sails  had  not  been  used  on  Earth 
except  for  sport  in  two  hundred  years.  But 
he  saw  no  movement. 

There  was  no  movement. 

The  Stellaris  touched  ground.  Very  grim 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


indeed,  Rod  led  the  way  to  the  airlock.  He 
opened  it 

There  was  a smell  in  the  air.  It  was  the 
smell  of  death. 

“These  people  were  hardly  more  than  sav- 
ages,” said  Rod  very  quietly,  “and  they  were 
alive  no  more  than  two  or  three  days  ago. 
They  haven’t  even  motors ! By  what  we  can 
see  they  must  have  lighted  their  homes  with 
flames,  burning  the  fat  of  animals,  or  petro- 
leum. 

“They  had  no  fliers,  no  ground-vehicles 
except — ” he  pointed — “that  was  a vehicle, 
with  an  animal  pulling  it.  And  these  people 
were  killed  because  some  day  they  might 
have  made  a space-ship.  The  pyramid-folk 
are  frightened.  We’ve  frightened  them. 

“They’re  wiping  out  all  intelligent  life  that 
can  challenge  them  even  a thousand  years 
from  now ! If  you  want  to  spare  yourselves 
the  grief  of  killing  these  fiends,  go  ahead! 
Get  out!  Quickly!  I’ve  got  work  to  do!” 

But  none  of  the  small  people  moved  to 
land. 

Their  leader  touched  hands  with  Rod. 

“We  have  decided  again,’’  his  shrill  notes 
said.  “We  fight.  Not  to  avenge  our  dead 
but  to  protect  those  who  will  never  know  that 
we  lived.  Please!  Make  haste!’’ 

The  Stellaris  rocketed  skyward  and  went 
into  blackness,  then  sped  madly  to  the  dark 
asteroid  with  her  jet-drive  and  tractors  to- 
gether striving  for  the  utmost  speed. 

In  an  hour  the  force-fields  were  shrunk  so 
that  only  the  Stellaris  was  included  in  them. 
But  before  that  time  and  under  their  shield- 
ing, the  foil-rolls  were  unrolled.  As  they 
touched  the  dark  mass  they  were  welded  in- 
separably to  its  surface.  The  other  devices 
needed  also  were  welded  fast  and  the  Stellaris 
anchored  herself  solidly  with  tractors,  and  a 
pressor  irrevocably  thrust  home  the  master- 
switch. 

INSTANTLY  from  the  ports  of  the  ship 
— from  which  glaring  lights  had  shone — 
there  was  only  the  blackness  of  empty  dark- 
space.  The  asteroid  had  vanished.  But  the 
Stellaris  remained  anchored  to  it  and  the 
Stellaris  stayed  in  dark-space.  The  ship  was 
with  its  creation  but  in  dimensions  parallel 
to  those  of  the  universe  of  stars.  There  was 
reason. 

There  were  three  vision-plates  in  the  ship’s 
control-room,  which  reported  from  the  aster- 
oid as  they  had  reported  from  the  drone. 
Starlight  shone  on  the  metal  of  the  ungainly 


65 

object’s  surface  for  the  first  time  since  time 
began. 

The  report  the  vision-eyes  sent  to  the  dark 
universe  was  beyond  all  expectation  and  be- 
yond the  experience  of  any  save  members  of 
the  race  which  made  shining  ships  and  used 
them  for  unwarned  murder.  It  was  terrify- 
ing. And  it  was  sublime. 

The  asteroid  reached  normal  space  with  a 
velocity  which  was  inherent — and  which  was 
above  the  critical  speed  of  the  alloy-plates 
now  welded  to  it.  Those  plates  bit  hard  into 
the  substance  of  the  new  universe.  They  were 
of  the  stuff  which  sent  pyramids  at  deadly 
multiples  of  the  speed  of  light. 

Other-space  matter  and  normal-space  mat- 
ter, alloyed  together,  were  an  unholy  com- 
pound which  consumed  the  energy  of  gravi- 
tation and  of  magnetism  and  of  the  energy 
which  is  electrostatic  stress.  Perhaps  it  even 
consumed  the  energy  of  light.  And  all  of  that 
energy  it  transformed  into  motion,  having  a 
velocity  in  miles-per-second  to  begin  with. 

It  sped  at  a mounting  speed  which  turned 
all  visible  starlight  to  violet,  then  turned  all 
heat-rays  to  blue.  And  still  its  rate  of  prog- 
ress grew.  It  sped  faster  until  light  itself 
'had  no  meaning  and  radio-frequency  radia- 
tions were  light  and  then  even  they  were 
nothing. 

It  hurtled  onward  and  the  television- 
screens  saw  all  the  universe  in  that  unimag- 
inable glow  which  is  the  slow  pulsation  of  the 
hearts  of  suns,  taking  hours  to  the  beat,  but 
now  raised  in  frequency  to  a strange  and  eerie 
glow.  And  still  the  speed  increased. 

Rod  worked  controls,  his  eyes  shining  like 
coals.  There  would  be  but  one  chance  to  use 
this  weapon,  this  bolt  of  other-matter  from 
another  space,  traveling  at  a rate  beside  which 
light-speed  was  imperceptible.  The  accuracy 
of  the  shot  must  be  absolute.  There  must  be 
no  deviation  of  the  thousandth  of  a hair.  And 
the  time  was  very,  very  short. 

Actually,  the  thing  happened  in  seconds. 

The  sun  the  aliens’  star-maps  pictured  lay 
ahead.  It  was  a giant  sun,  so  huge  and  fierce 
that  the  aliens’  inhabited  planet  lay  two-hun- 
dred-million  miles  away.  It  was  toward  that 
sun  that  the  other-space  projectile  sped.  It 
was  miles  in  diameter,  but  it  could  be  con- 
trolled. 

It  moved  at  five  thousand  times  the  speed 
of  light  but  Rod  had  precious  moments  in 
which  to  observe  its  course  and  aim  it,  sec- 
onds in  which  to  adjust  the  aim,  fractions  of 
seconds  in  which  to  make  sure. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


66 

Then  he  cut  loose  the  anchoring  tractors 
and  the  Stellaris  floated  on  while  the  hurt- 
ling thing  went  unguided. 

The  Earth-ship  returned  to  normal  space 
far  beyond  the  solar  system  of  the  pyramid- 
makers.  And  the  thing  was  already  finished. 
But  the  light  had  not  yet  reached  this  spot. 

Those  on  the  Earth-ship  had  time  to  line  the 
ports,  staring,  and  see  the  giant  sun  and  even 
to  glimpse  the  shining  specks  which  were  its 
worlds  before  the  spectacle  began. 

They  did  not  see  the  missile  strike.  No 
eyes  could  follow  the  mass  which  struck  at 
thousands  of  millions  of  miles  per  second, 
with  all  the  stored  energy  in  its  impact  that 
it  had  absorbed  from  the  linkage-fields  across 
its  path.  They  could  not  even  tell  where  it 
had  struck. 

THEY  saw  only  that  the  great  sun  swelled 
suddenly  and  swelled  again  with  a mon- 
strous and  terrible  deliberation,  then  seemed 
to  pour  out  into  all  of  space  as  if  to  devour  it 
utterly.  The  timing  was  like  the  seemingly 
slow-motion  process  of  water  falling  over 
Victoria  Nyanza  falls. 

Actually  it  was  of  incredible  vehemence 
and  unthinkable  force.  The  free  energy  within 
the  sun  had  suddenly  been  tripled  by  the  ar- 
rival of  that  supernal  missile,  which  sank  to 
the  sun’s  very  heart  before  its  atoms  could 
explode. 

The  sun  literally  detonated.  Flaming  rav- 
ening star-stuff  shot  outward  at  thousands  of 
miles-per-second.  A planet  was  engulfed — 
a second.  A third,  fourth,  fifth  and  sixth. 

Those  on  the  Stellaris  watched  the  sun  be- 
come a nebula,  a mass  of  incandescent  gas 
filling  a globe  five-thousand-million  miles 
across.  And  no  planet  lived  in  that  inferno — 
no  gigantic  generator  of  power,  able  to  supply 
thousands  of  murder-fleets  light-millennia 
away,  could  still  be  functioning.  The  planet 
of  the  pyramid-ships  was  gone.  Its  sun  had 
blown  itself  to  vapor. 

And  no  pyramid-ship  anywhere  in  the 
galaxy  had  power. 

Those  in  motion  past  the  speed  of  light 
stayed  in  motion.  There  was  no  power  in 
them  to  brake  below  the  critical  speed  of  the 
alloy  of  which  they  were  made.  Those  below 
the  speed  of  light  had  no  power  to  rise  to  it. 
Those  in  planetary  atmospheres  fell  heavily 
to  the  ground.  Those  grounded  stayed 
aground. 

But  most  of  the  murder-fleets  out  upon  the 
errand  of  wholesale  massacre  so  lately  com- 


manded and  not  yet  completed — most  of  them 
drifted  on  unendingly.  A few  suns  acquired 
small  fleets  of  pyramidal  satellites.  One  or 
two  planets  captured  brightly-polished 
moons. 

And  of  course  there  were  some  meteoric 
falls,  which,  when  excavated,  disclosed  half- 
fused  artifacts  and  dead  aliens  with  bulbous 
heads  and  attenuated  arms  and  legs.  But  most 
of  the  pyramid-ships  simply  drifted  on — and 
on — and  on. 

Forever. 

***** 

When  the  Stellaris  got  back  to  her  own 
solar  system  it  was  necessary  to  be  very  care- 
ful. Not  because  of  fear  from  any  Earth-de- 
fense but  lest  she  do  damage.  The  bow-weap- 
on had  to  be  turned  off  completely.  Tractor 
and  pressor  scanning-beams  could  not  be 
used,  of  course,  when  nearing  a planet  with 
so  precariously  poised  a civilization  as 
Earth’s. 

And  then  it  was  distinctly  quaint  that  as 
she  lowered  heavily  into  atmosphere  Earth- 
Government  planes  darted  upon  her,  firing 
furiously,  and  had  to  be  pushed  away  with 
pressors  as  the  ship  went  tiredly  to  ground. 

Then  there  were  investigations  and  vast 
excitement  and  much  indignation.  Rod  Can- 
trell, said  solemn  individuals  in  Earth  Gov- 
ernment, had  departed  from  Earth  without 
authorization  in  the  only  vessel  capable  of 
space-navigation  and  defense  of  the  human 
race  against  certain  strange  alien  space-ships 
which  had  plunged  to  their  destruction  upon 
the  Earth’s  surface. 

Who  knew,  said  these  indignant  people, 
how  many  more  alien  ships  were  floating 
about  outside  the  Earth’s  atmosphere,  prepar- 
ing for  invasion  and  the  capture  of  Sol’s 
fairest  planet? 

Rod  said  curtly  that  there  were  no  more 
alien  ships  about.  Glowering  a little,  he  made 
his  report.  Those  who  had  been  of  the  un- 
willing crew  of  the  Stellaris  substantiated  it. 
The  small  round  people  of  the  planet  of  dead 
cities  told  in  their  fluting  voices  what  had 
become  of  their  race.  Earth  Government  gave 
them  a space-ship,  ultimately,-  and  they  went 
back  to  build  up  their  civilization  anew. 

In  the  end  the  court-martial  at  which  this 
testimony  came  out  was  ended  and  Rod  Can- 
trel  was  formally  absolved  of  all  penalty  for 
having  been  on  board  the  Stellaris  when  a 
short-circuit  threw  it  into  space. 


THE  BLACK  GALAXY 


He  was  cleared  of  all  censure  for  having 
saved  the  ship  and  those  in  it  and  no  blame 
— so  the  verdict  ran — lay  upon  him  for  hav- 
ing fought  the  murderers  of  a thousand  civil- 
izations and  for  having  certainly  prevented 
the  ending  of  humanity. 

And  then,  as  a separate  and  necessarily 
Slow  process,  there  began  the  tedious,  red- 
tape-filled  process  of  rewarding  him.  In  the 
course  of  a year  or  so  he  would  undoubtedly 
be  given  a medal. 

But  he  was  not  concerned.  A month  after 
the  Stellaris’  return  to  Earth  there  were  flut- 
ing sounds  in  the  anteroom  of  the  quarters 
he  occupied.  The  leader  of  the  colonists  from 


ffi 

the  planet  of  dead  cities  wished  to  confer  with 
him.  Rod  liked  the  little  round  man  but  he 
begged  off. 

Kit  said,  “Why’d  you  do  that,  Rod?  He’s 
a nice  little  person.” 

"I  know,”  said  Rod.  "But  d’you  remem- 
ber how  little  attention  I paid  to  you  while 
we  were  off  in  the  Stellaris ?” 

"I  certainly  do!”  said  Kit. 

"I  was  busy,”  Rod  explained  amiably. 
"But  I just  got  leave  for  our  marriage  and  a 
honeymoon.  And  I thought  that  since  I neg- 
lected you  so  much  before — well — I thought 
I’d  put  everything  else  aside  and  pay  a little 
attention  to  you  now.” 


Startling.  OcLditiei  of  *cL 


cience 


SEEING  colors  is  a gift  which  is  the  property  of  only  man  among  the  mammals.  While  rep- 
tiles, birds  and  insects  visualize  in  technicolor,  the  dog,  cat  and  all  other  mammals  are  color- 
blind. 


CONTRARY  to  general  belief,  the  coin  vending  machine  is  not  a modem  idea.  Thousands  of 
years  ago  the  ancient  Egyptians  had  such  devices  in  their  temples — with  the  payoff  coming 
in  holy  water. 

rSl  YEARS  to  come,  scientists  believe  that  man  will  evolve  toward  the  Cyclops.  Our  umpty- 
great  grandchildren  will  probably  have  a single  orb  in  the  center  of  their  faces  if  current  trends 
continue. 

EACH  white  dwarf  star  in  the  heavens  has  such  appalling  density  that  its  weight  is  approxi- 
mately one  million  pounds  per  square  inch. 

NOVAE  occur  at  least  twenty  times  per  annum  in  this  precarious  universe  of  ours.  Since  it  is 
generally  estimated  to  be  about  two  billion  years  old,  some  40  billion  stars,  almost  all  in 
the  cosmos,  have  burst. 


COMBATING  sailors’  superstitions  about  sailing  on  Fridays,  the  British  Admiralty  once  laid 
the  keel  of  H.M.S.  Friday  on  the  day  in  question,  launched  her  and  sent  her  to  sea  un- 
der a Captain  Friday  on  the  same  day  of  the  week.  She  was  never  heard  from  again. 

EVERY  second  that  passes  sees  an  average  evaporation  of  16,000,000  tons  of  water  over  the 
surface  of  the  earth — virtually  all  of  which  is  returned  in  the  form  of  precipitation. 


The  ROAD  to 


SINCE  archeologists  have  yet  to  learn 
just  where  Man  originated  on  this 
planet  we  don’t  know  what  his  first 
major  travel  problem  was.  It  may  have  been 
the  crossing  of  a mountain  range  or  a wide 
river. 

Whatever  the  problem,  it  must  have  looked 


A German  scientist  examines  the  1933  Magdeburg  rocket 
/ motor 


impossible  to  primitive  Man — but  he  finally 
solved  it. 

His  next  travel  problem  was  the  crossing 
of  open  water.  For  thousands  of'  years  men 
must  have  sat  on  the  shore  and  studied  the 
blue  expanse  to  the  horizon,  dreaming  of 
navigable  rafts  that  would  one  day  penetrate 
the  unknown. 

Sails,  oars  and  rudders  were  finally  dis- 
covered and  those  navigable  rafts  were  finally 
built. 


Today  Man  is  confronted  with  what  may 
be  his  final  travel  problem.  It  is  not  the  land 
across  the  river  or  in  the  valleys  on  the  far 
side  of  the  mountains  or  the  unknown  shore 
across  the  sea.  Today  his  goal  is  the  cold 
silverescence  of  the  full  moon,  the  brilliance 
of  Venus  or  the  reddish  glow  of  Mars. 

The  problem,  as  always,  is  how  to  get 
there. 

The  idea  of  space  travel  is  far  from  new. 
It  began  about  the  time  of  Christ  when  think- 
ing folk  of  the  Mediterranean  regions  first 
realized  that  the  “lights  in  the  sky”  were 
very  probably  material  worlds  like  our  own. 
Naturally  this  concept  led  to  curiosity  as  to 
what  those  other  worlds  were  like — and  cur- 
iosity inevitably  led  to  a desire  to  visit  them. 

The  idea  of  space  travel  was  to  remain  a 
mere  philosophic  wish  for  some  nineteen 
centuries.  Considering  that  neither  scientific 
discoveries  nor  relevant  technological  ad- 
vances furnished  any  nourishment  to  the  idea, 
it  is  a major  miracle  that  it  did  not  die  quietly. 

And  when  astronomy,  thanks  to  the  tele- 
scope, did  begin  to  provide  scientific  informa- 
tion, it  seemed  to  put  space  travel  into  the 
realm  of  permanent  impossibilities. 

HOPE  IN  1600 

In  1600  Man  could  still  hope  for  some  sort 
of  atmosphere  between  planets,  so  that  space 
travel  would  be  a mere  extension  of  the 
problem  of  flight  in  air.  By  1700  it  was  all 
too  evident  that  space  was  a Void.  And  by 
1800,  with  the  true  interplanetary  distances 
known,  solution  to  the  problem  seemed 
crushed  by  its  own  sheer  magnitude. 

Actually,  realization  of  the  true  require- 
ments brought  the  solution  closer.  The  true 
facts  of  astronomy  did  not  prove  the  prob- 
lem impossible — they  merely  revealed  that 
the  nature  of  the  problem  was  very  different 
from  what  had  been  previously  supposed.  It 
only  needed  some  looking  around  to  find  new 
answers. 

At  first  gravitation  seemed  to  chain  a 


A New  Series  by  WILLY  LEY 

68 


SPACE  TRAVEL 

Part  I THE  LAST  TWELVE  YEARS 


In  the  first  of  a brilliant  series  of  special  articles,  a world- 
famous  authority  on  rockets  chronicles  the  amazing 
progress  which  man  has  made  toward  interplanetary  flight ! 


hypothetical  space-ship  to  its  planet.  Then 
it  was  realized  that  the  same  law  insured 
predictability  in  space.  The  fact  that  space 
was  a void  implied  no  obstacle  to  attaining 
the  enormous  velocities  needed  to  traverse 
interplanetary  distances  in  reasonable  time. 
And  the  means  of  bridging  space  was  already 
known  and  applied  in  practise,  both  as 


Johannes  Winkler  examines  his  second  rocket,  which  he 
was  not  allowed  to  test 


weapon  and  toy — the  principle  of  the  rocket. 

Then  came  the  first  inklings  of  a techology 
applicable  to  space  travel.  In  1865  French 
author  Achille  Eyraud  stated  that  a space- 
ship could  be  propelled  by  a moteur  d,  reac- 
tion— or  rocket.  That  same  year  Jules  Verne 


Primitive  German  rocket,  1932 


69 


STARTLING  STORIES 


70 

published  his  famous  novel  in  which  a cannon 
fired  a shot  around  the  Moon.  His  theory 
boiled  down  to  the  correct  one  that  space 
travel  depends  upon  very  high  velocities. 

CANSWINDT  COULD  DO  IT 

In  1891  eccentric  German  inventor  Her- 
mann Ganswindt  claimed  ability  to  build  a 
reaction-propelled  space-ship  if  someone 
would  give  him  sufficient  funds.  And  in  1897 
obscure  Russian  schoolteacher  Konstantin  E. 
Ziolkovsky  insisted  in  numerous  articles  that 
a space-ship  was  possible — that  it  would  be 
a gigantic  rocket — and  that  it  would  use 
liquid  fuels. 

These  views,  first  printed  in  1903,  sound 
surprisingly  modern.  But  thanks  to  Ziolkov- 
sky’s  obscurity  and  his  inability  to  get  his 
articles  translated,  his  influence  upon  con- 
temporaries was  negligible.  Had  not  sub- 
sequent developments  backed  up  the  sound- 
ness of  his  theories,  he  and  they  would  have 
been  forgotten. 

CODDARD’S  REPORT 

It  was  not  until  1919  that  the  late  Profes- 
sor Robert  H.  Goddard  published  his  now- 
famous  Smithsonian  paper,  A Method  of 
Reaching  Extreme  Altitudes.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  Ziolkovsky.  Nor  did  German  Profes- 
sor Hermann  Oberth,  whose  similar  volume, 
published  in  1923,  was  the  cornerstone  upon 
which  the  Nazis  later  built  their  Peenemunde 
Research  Institute,  from  which  came  the 
long-range  V-2. 

Professor  Goddard  saw  the  first  liquid- 
fuel  rocket  lift  itself  off  the  ground  in  1926 — 
but  this  fact  did  not  become  generally  known 
until  ten  years  later.  It  is  indicative  of  the 
scatter-gun  history  of  early  rocket  develop- 
ment that  a number  of  German  scientists 
founded  the  German  Rocket  Society  one  year 
after  that  event,  in  July,  1927,  and  that  the 
purpose  of  their  society  was  to  find  out 
whether  a liquid  fuel  rocket  could  be  built! 

They  found  out  with  some  delay  when,  on 
March  14,  1931,  the  first  president  of  the 
German  Rocket  Society,  the  late  Johannes 
Winkler,  sent  his  privately-built  liquid-fuel 
rocket  2000  feet  into  the  air.  And  the  first 
liquid-fuel  rocket  of  the  society  itself  rose  off 
the  ground  on  the  10th  of  May  of  the  same 
year. 

All  these  rockets  were  ridiculously  primi- 
tive contraptions  which  one  man  could  carry 


under  one  arm.  They  compared  to  the  rockets 
of  today  in  about  the  manner  a rubber-string 
airplane  model  compares  to  a B-36.  They 
employed  the  same  basic  natural  laws,  they 
embodied  similar  engineering  principles  and 
they  did  manage  to  get  themselves  into  the 
air. 

But  they  impressed  only  those  who  had 
been  convinced  in  advance  of  the  possibility 
of  space  flight  through  study  of  the  theoretical 
works.  Bjt  the  time  these  first  rockets  stag- 
gered into  the  air,  the  theory  of  interplanet- 
ary travel  was  firmly  nailed  down  in  print 
and  comparatively  little  has  been  added  to 
it  since. 

ENGINEERING  A DIFFERENT  STORY 

The  progress  of  rocket  engineering  is  a 
different  story.  The  last  twelve  years  have 
brought  advances  in  this  field  which  even  the 
most  optimistk  prophet  would  not  have  dared 
to  forecast.  There  is  no  better  way  of  show- 
ing what  has  been  done  than  by  studying  the 
record  of  accomplishments  during  this  period. 

This  is  how  things  stood  in  1936. 

By  then  a number  of  test-stand  experiments 
with  liquid  fuel  motors  had  been  made  -by 
several  experimenters  and  experimenting 
groups,  usually  successfully.  Dr.  Robert  H. 
Goddard  and  the  American  Rocket  Society 
had  worked  with  gasoline  and  liquid  oxygen. 

The  German  Rocket  Society  had  worked 
with  gasoline  and  liquid  oxygen  and  (at  my 
insistence)  with  alcohol-water  mixtures  and 
liquid  oxygen.  Jahannes  Winkler  had 
worked  with  liquid  oxygen  and  liquid  me- 
thane. Dr.  Eugen  Sanger  of  the  University 
of  Vienna  had  worked  with  oxygen  (both 
gaseous  and  liquid)  and  fuel  oil. 

The  German  engineer  Friedrich  Wilhelm 
Sander  had  worked  with  nitric  acid  as  an 
oxidizer  and  a fuel  he  did  not  name.  And  the 
rocket  research  group  of  the  German  Army, 
which  later  was  to  grow  into  the  Peenemunde 
Institute,  had  worked  with  alcohol  and  liquid 
oxygen. 

None  of  these  experimental  rocket  motors 
had  even  approached  a thrust  of  1000  pounds. 

A LOOK  AT  THE  RECORD 

By  1936  history  could  also  have  recorded 
a number  of  complete  liquid-fuel  rockets. 
Their  builders  were : 

(1)  American  Rocket  Society  (gasoline 
and  liquid  oxygen) 


THE  ROAD  TO  SPACE  TRAVEL 


(2)  German  Arm}’’,  Ordnance  Rocket  Re- 
search Group  under  Count  von  Braun 
(alcohol  and  liquid  oxygen) 

(3)  German  Rocket  Society  (gasoline  and 
liquid  oxygen) 

(4)  Dr.  R.  H.  Goddard  (gasoline  and 
liquid  oxygen) 

(5)  Johannes  Winkler  (liquid  methane 
and  liquid  oxygen) 

With  the  exception  of  those  rockets  which 
will  be  mentioned  in  the  next  paragraph  they 
were  all  small,  weighing  less  than  50  pounds. 
The  large  ones  were,  in  chronological  order : 

(A)  The  “Magdeburg  Rocket”  of  the  Ger- 
man Rocket  Society's  research  group,  finished 
in  June  1933.  It  stood  about  15  feet  tall  and 
was  equipped  with  a rocket  motor  of  440  lbs. 
thrust.  Its  success  remains  problematical 
since  one  of  its  guiding  rollers  caught  in  the 
launching  rack,  ruining  the  take-off. 

(B)  Rocket  A-2  (Aggregate  No.  2.)  of 
the  German  Army’s  research  group.  The 
rocket  weighed  about  330  lbs.  at  take-off, 
was  equipped  with  a rocket  motor  capable  of 
delivering  a thrust  of  660  lbs.  and  reached  an 
altitude  of  6500  feet  in  1934. 

(C)  Dr.  Goddard’s  rockets  of  1935,  tested 
near  Mescalero  Ranch,  Roswell,  New  Mex- 
ico. These  rockets  also  stood  about  15  feet 
tall  and  were  full  of  elaborate  and  advanced 
features  but  had  comparatively  small  fuel 
tanks.  Having  an  empty  weight  of  about  60 
lbs.  they  reached  a maximum  altitude  of 
7500  feet  on  May  31,  1935. 

RECORD  OF  PROGRESS 

And  this  is  how  things  stood  in  1948,  a 
dozen  years  later : 

The  number  of  test-stand  experiments 
made  during  these  twelve  years  may  number 
as  high  as  twenty -^thousand.  They  led  to  the 
experimental  and/or  operational  use  of  a 
number  of  new  fuel  combinations,  notably 
nitric  acid  and  aniline  (American),  high- 
concentration  hydrogen  peroxide  and  alcohol 
with  admixtures  (German)  and  nitric  acid 
and  vinyl  ethyl  ether  (code  name  “Visol”; 
German). 

As  for  complete  rockets: 

A large  liquid  fuel  rocket,  called  A-4  by  its 
German  originators  and  V-2  by  everybody 
else,  with  a take-off  weight  of  about  12 
metric  tons,  carrying  a warhead  weighing  one 
ton,  had  been  used  operationally  over  a range 
of  200  miles  during  the  last  stages  of  World 
War  II. 


71 

A total  of  4300  of  these  rockets  had  been 
fired  operationally,  rising  to  an  altitude  of 
about  65  miles  along  their  trajectory.  A 
vertical  firing  by  the  Germans  had  resulted 
in  a peak  altitude  of  100.5  miles. 

Near-vertical  firings  of  such  rockets  from 
the  White  Sands  Proving  Ground  in  New 
Mexico  had  resulted  in  a maximum  altitude 
of  116  miles,  the  rocket  being  loaded  with 
scientific  instruments  weighing  one  full  ton, 
including  the  weight  of  the  containers. 

The  U.  S.  Army  Ordnance  rocket  W AC 
Corporal  had  reached  an  altitude  of  34  miles 
in  early  Spring,  1946. 

The  U.  S.  Navy  rocket  Aerobee,  carrying 
150  pounds  of  instruments,  had  reached  an 
altitude  of  78  miles  on  March  5,  1948. 

ROCKET  PLANES 

The  German  rocket-propelled  airplane 
Messerschmitt  Me-163B  (code  name  Komet) 
had  been  flown  operationally  as  an  intercep- 
tor, using  the  “Walter”  rocket  motor,  which 
burned  high-strength  hydrogen  peroxide  with 
alcohol  to  which  some  hydrazine  hydrate  was 
added.  The  Me-163B  attained  speeds  up  to 
650  miles  per  hour.  It  was  not  designed  for 
supersonic  speeds. 

The  American  rocket  airplane  XS-1  had 
reached  supersonic  speeds  repeatedly  during 
the  summer  of  1947. 

The  Navy  rocket  Neptune  was  nearing 
completion.  About  as  tall  as  the  46-foot  V-2, 
but  with  a slimmer  waistline,  the  Neptune  is 
designed  to  carry  a 200-pound  pay-load  to 
an  altitude  of  235  miles.  This  corresponds 
roughly  to  the  outer  fringes  of  the  earth’s 
atmosphere.  By  the  time  this  article  appears 
in  print  the  experiment  may  have  been  com- 
pleted. 

A ROUGH  OUTLINE 

But  this  tabulation  of  the  technological 
progress  of  the  last  twelve  years  is  only  a 
rough  outline  of  accomplishment.  More  im- 
portant than  the  figures  mentioned  are  the 
implications  of  these  achievements.  Most  of 
the  things  which  appeared  doubtful  in  1936 
have  been  proved  (and  generally  used)  in 
1948. 

To  realize  how  much  doubt  has  been 
cleared  away  during  these  twelve  years  I 
only  have  to  think  back  to  many  conversa- 
tions which  took  place  in  1936.  One  in 
particular  sticks  in  my  mind. 


72  STARTLING  STORIES 


It  occurred  in  New  York,  in  a room  in  the 
Hotel  St.  Moritz  and  my  audience  consisted 
of  several  engineers  who  were  supposed  to 
report  to  their  bosses. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation  I was 
asked  to  draw  a sketch  of  a large  rocket, 
about  midway  between  the  then  existing 
experimental  types  and  a manned  spaceship. 
That  was  easy  and  the  result  was  something 
looking  very  much  like  a cross  section  of  V-2. 

I did  not  even  have  to  think  while  making 
this  diagram.  There  was  one  very  much  like 
it  in  Prof.  Oberth’s  book.  Furthermore  the 
first  Oberth  rocket  and  the  second  Winkler 
rocket  showed  the  same  general  arrange- 
ment. 

That  the  second  Winkler  rocket  had  ex- 
ploded at  take-off  and  that  the  Oberth  rocket 
had  not  functioned  at  all  for  lack  of  a suit- 
able motor  I deemed  wise  to  leave  unsaid. 
The  finished  diagram  showed  a torpedo- 
shaped body,  with  stabilizing  fins  at  the  lower 
end. 

The  rocket  motor  was  between  the  stabi- 
lizing fins  and  above  it,  in  succession,  were 
tanks  for  fuel  and  oxidizer  and  a payload 
compartment  in  the  nose. 

LIQUID  FUEL  PREFERRED 

While  making  the  drawing  I explained  the 
reasons  for  liquid  fuel.  One  is  the  simple  fact 
that  the  flow  of  a liquid  through  a tube  (from 
tank  to  motor)  is  easy  to  control.  Hence  one 
can  control  thrust  and  even  shut  off  the  motor 
temporarily. 

With  solid  fuels  all  these  things  are  either 
completely  impossible  or  very  hard  to  ac- 
complish. In  a solid  fuel  rocket  it  is  virtually 
inevitable  that  the  “fuel  tank”  and  the  “com- 
bustion chamber”  are  one  and  the  same  thing. 
This  means  that  most  of  the  rocket  has  to 
withstand  the  pressure  generated  by  the 
burning  of  the  fuel  plus  the  temperature 
which  is  generated  in  generous  amounts  along 
with  the  pressure. 

This  makes  for  a high  dead  weight  and 
the  prime  criterion  of  a successful  rocket  is 
the  ratio  between  dead  weight  and  fuel  load. 
And  finally,  liquid  fuels  happen  to  contain 
more  energy  per  pound  of  weight. 

“Ahem,”  said  one  of  my  listeners,  “you 
say  that  such  motors  have  actually  burned  ?” 

“Yes,  Many  times.” 

“They  were  all  quite  small?” 

“Yes.  A few  had  a few  hundred  pounds  of 
thrust,  most  of  them  about  sixty  pounds.  But 


a rocket  motor  should  be  easy  to  enlarge.” 
“What,  in  your  opinion,  is  the  largest  size 
that  could  be  built?” 

“I  don’t  know,  of  course.  Offhand  I'd 
guess  about  three  tons.  If  future  rockets 
weigh  more  they  would  certainly  need  several 
motors.” 

The  V-2  motor  has  a thrust  of  27  tons  and 
it  now  seems  that  there  is  no  upper  limit  to 
the  size  and  thrust  of  a single  motor. 

“That  would  mean  that  the  tank  for  the 
oxygen  might  be  large  enough  to  hold  several 
tons  of  liquid  oxygen.  How  do  you  know 
that  one  could  produce  such  quantities.  The 
stuff  evaporates  while  you  make  more.” 
“Judging  by  the  performance  of  small 
amounts  it  should  keep  better  the  more  you 
have.” 

“But  you  don’t  really  know.  You  haven’t 
really  handled  tons  of  it.” 

“No.” 

One  V-2  charge  is  11,000  pounds  of  liquid 
oxygen,  the  tank  cars  used  by  the  Germans 
operationally  held  three  rocket  charges.  The 
handling  of  many  ton  lots,  as  we  now  know, 
does  not  present  any  special  difficulties. 

“Such  a motor,”  another  one  of  my  lis- 
teners said,  “should  burn  out  after  a few 
seconds.” 

“Not  if  you  cool  it.” 

“Then  you  need  extra  cooling  water.  If 
the  amounts  of  heat  are  large,  as  they  are 
bound  to  be,  you’ll  have  trouble  dissipating 
that  heat.” 

THEY  DIDN’T  BELIEVE  ME 

“You  don’t  cool  in  the  manner  of  an  in- 
ternal combustion  engine.  You  use  the  fuel 
itself  for  cooling  and  when  it  gets  warm  you 
burn  it.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

“But  it  has  been  done — it  works.” 

“I  don’t  believe  it.” 

By  now  almost  everybody  knows  that 
rocket  motors  have  what  has  come  to  be 
called  “regenerative  cooling.” 

“Well,  supposing  it  does  work,  how  long 
would  the  motor  last?" 

“The  Austrian,  Dr.  Sanger,  reported  fif- 
teen minutes  burning  time.  The  highest  I 
have  seen  myself  was  ninety  seconds.” 

“That  won’t  get  you  very  far.” 

Except,  of  course,  that  it  is  not  the  burning 
time  that  counts  but  the  velocity  reached  by 
the  rocket  during  its  burning  period.  The 
V-2,  with  some  65  seconds  burning  time, 


THE  ROAD  TO  SPACE  TRAVEL 


continues  to  coast  upwards  for  another  90 
seconds  or  so,  attaining  an  altitude  of  110 
miles. 

The  Neptune  with  less  than  half  a minute 
longer  burning  time,  will  go  to  more  than 
twice  that  altitude.  And  eight  minutes  burn- 
ing time  will  carry  to  the  Moon.  The  figure 
of  eight  minutes  is  high  because  it  is  based 
on  what  the  pilot  will  probably  be  able  to 
stand. 

“You  said” — somebody  else  joined  the 
battle  of  words — “that  it  might  be  useful  to 
shut  off  the  motor  for  a while  and  then 
reignite  it.  Has  that  ever  been  done?” 

“No,  but  it  should  be  possible  to  develop 
an  ignition  system  that  can  do  it.” 

IT  HASN’T  BEEN  DONE? 

"But  it  hasn’t  been  actually  done!" 

Both  the  nitric  acid  plus  aniline  combina- 
tion and  the  German  hydrogen  peroxide  plus 
alcohol  with  hydrazine  hydrate  combination 
are  self  igniting,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  bring 
them  together.  And  the  motor  of  the  XS-1, 
developed  by  Reaction  Motors,  Inc.  has  de- 
monstrated re-ignition  in  flight  nicely,  even 
though  its  fuels  are  not  self -igniting. 

“I  saw  a German  movie  recently” — the 
reference  was  to  Fritz  Lang’s  Girl  in  the 
Moon — “where  things  almost  went  wrong 
because  the  pilot  nearly  fainted  before  he 
could  shut  off  the  motor.  What  would  hap- 
pen if  he  really  fainted?” 

"He  could  just  faint  away.  The  job  of  cut- 
ting off  the  fuel  when  the  proper  velocity  has 
been  reached  would  be  intrusted  to  a robot 
mechanism.” 


73 

“Robots  in  the  rocket ! How  could  a 
mechanism  sense  the  true  velocity  if  there 
is  no  air  outside  against  which  it  can  work!” 

The  V-2  has  a mechanism  just  like  this. 
It  is  known  to  engineers  as  the  “integrating 
accelerometer”  and  you  can  carry  it  in  a 
suitcase. 

“Well,  let’s  suppose  the  pilot  doesn’t  faint 
He  still  could  not  steer  in  space.” 

DOUBT  IN  ’36 

“He  could  not  steer  against  an  airstream, 
true,  because  there  is  no  air.  But  he  will 
probably  have  separate  smaller  motors  for 
steering.  It  might  also  be  possible  to  steer 
by  means  of  vanes  in  the  exhaust  blast.” 

“I’m  sure,  they  wouldn’t  last  long — if  it 
can  be  done  at  all,  which  I doubt.” 

The  idea  of  inserting  a vane  in  the  exhaust 
jet  had  been  voiced  several  times  then,  but 
even  most  rocket  people  doubted  it.  Actually 
Dr.  Goddard  had  made  the  experiment  suc- 
cessfully by  that  time,  using  vanes  touching 
the  exhaust. 

A few  years  later  the  Germans  inserted 
vanes  into  the  exhaust  and  the  V-2  operates 
that  way.  Personally  I prefer  Dr.  Goddard’s 
method.  Separate  steering  jets  are  still  pos- 
sible but  so  far  nobody  seems  to  have  actu- 
ally used  them. 

Then  somebody  fired  the  final  round. 

"All  this  is  nonsense  anyway.  A rocket 
can’t  work  in  empty  space.  What  has  it  got 
to  kick  against?” 

Thus  the  meeting  ended  with  a round  of 
drinks  and  general  head-shaking.  The  drinks, 
I seem  to  remember,  were  good. 


Coming  in  the  Next  Issue 

THE  ROAD  TO  SPACE  TRAVEL 
PartH:  THE  NEXT  TWELVE  YEARS 

By  WILLY  LEY 


74 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Great  Doak 

THE  SHIP  from  Earth  arrived  in 
midaftemoon.  Kennedy,  working  him- 
self and  his  two  assistants  into  nervous 
exhaustion  setting  up  recording  instruments 
around  the  rectangle  of  white  sand,  saw  the 
ship  come  in.  At  first  he  was  afraid  it  was 


going  to  land  in  the  rectangle  where  the 
Martians,  at  this  moment,  were  forbidding 
even  a fly  to  trespass,  but  the  pilot  changed 
course  slightly  and  set  it  down,  with  much 
blowing  of  landing  jets,  less  than  a quarter 
of  a mile  away. 

Kennedy  was  relieved.  It  had  taken  a lot 
of  talking  and,  considering  the  language  dif- 
ficulties involved,  a lot  of  arm  waving  and 


“By  the  sweat  of  your  brow  shall  ye  earn  your  daily  bread — ” is  still  true 

on  the  hard-working  Earth — but  what  of  the  fiery  Planet  of  Mars? 

75 


STARTLING  STORIES 


76 

picture  drawing,  to  get  Try  or  to  give  him 
permission  to  set  up  his  recording  instru- 
ments so  near  the  rectangle. 

The  Martian  had  not  fully  liked  the  idea 
of  the  recording  instruments  and  Kennedy 
suspected  that  if  Try  or  had  really  under- 
stood their  purpose,  which  was  to  trace  the 
lines  of  force  flowing  from  the  machinery 
that  must  be  hidden  somewhere  here  in  this 
city,  and  thus  locate  the  machinery  itself,  he 
would  have  liked  it  even  less.  Kennedy  won- 
dered what  the  Martian  would  have  said, 
and  done,  if  some  blundering  human  had 
landed  a space  ship  in  this  restricted  area. 

For  that  matter,  why  had  the  ship  landed 
here  at  all  ? Traxia  was  a small,  unimportant 
city,  well  off  the  routes  of  even  the  tourists 
rich  enough  and  hardy  enough  to  make  a 
trip  to  Mars. 

Watching,  he  saw  the  port  swing  open. 
Three  men  emerged. 

For  a few  minutes  they  stared  around, 
looking  at  the  city  set  like  a small  jewel  in 
a cup  in  the  desert,  looking  at  the  sand  and 
the  sun  and  at  the  range  of  low  hills  off  to  the 
south,  accustoming  themselves  to  the  lesser 
gravity  of  the  Red  Planet,  then  they  spotted 
Kennedy  and  his  two  assistants.  One  flung  up 
an  arm  to  point.  Kennedy  swore.  Of  course, 
newcomers  would  head  straight  toward  the 
nearest  humans  in  sight,  in  fact,  the  only 
humans  in  the  city  of  Traxia. 

“Probably  to  ask  us  for  a road  map!”  he 
said.  He  had  no  time  to  answer  questions. 
And  no  interest  in  answering  them.  But  the 
three  men  were  moving  toward  him  with 
sure  purposefulness. 

They  came  up,  three  stalwart  fellows  in 
trim  uniforms,  straight  to  him.  “Beg 
pardon,”  their  leader  said.  “We’re  looking 
for  Mr.  John  Kennedy.  Could  you  tell  us 
where  to  find  him?” 

Kennedy  stared  at  them.  He  had  never 
seen  them  before.  But  he  had  seen  the  likes 
of  them  brawling  in  the  streets  of  the  New 
York  Space  Port,  drunk  and  raising  Cain, 
and  in  Mars  Port,  and  in  Moon  Port,  where 
the  glass  of  the  enclosed  city  area  looked  up 
at  the  frozen  sky.  The  breed  was  the  same 
all  over. 

“I’m  John  Kennedy,”  he  said.  “What  do 
you  want?” 

“Mr.  Doak’s  compliments,  sir.  He  will 
see  you  in  his  cabin,  immediately,”  said  the 
spokesman. 

“Mr.  Doak?  And  who  is  he?  Your 
captain?” 


VARYING  shades  of  surprise  showed 
on  the  faces  of  the  three  men.  “You 
don’t  know  Mr.  Doak?  He — he's  the 
owner.”  The  speaker  seemed  astonished  to 
learn  that  anybody  lived  in  the  system  who 
didn’t  know  Doak. 

“I  don’t  know  him,”  Kennedy  said.  “I 
don’t  know  that  I want  to  know  him — ’’ 
Behind  him,  he  heard  Blount  stir  protest- 
ingly.  Blount  and  Anders  were  his  two 
assistants. 

“I’ve  heard  of  him,”  Blount  said.  “He’s  a 
financier,  or  something  like  that.  He  put 
up  the  money  to  finance  Threlkeld’s  investi- 
gation of  the  ultra-drive  for  UN.” 

“Come  to  think  of  it,”  Anders  spoke  for 
the  first  time.  “I  think  he  put  up  part  of 
the  money  to  finance  us.” 

“Uh,”  Kennedy  said.  He  was  a field  man 
for  the  UN  Council  of  Science  and  he  was 
responsible  to  the  Council  and  to  nobody 
else.  The  Council  paid  him  and  furnished 
the  money  for  his  work.  It  was  their  job  to 
find  the  money  and  his  job  to  do  the  work, 
a division  of  labor  which  satisfied  him.  But 
if  Doak  had  put  up  part  of  the  money,  he 
felt  he  had  to  be  nice  to  the  fellow,  for  the 
sake  of  the  Council. 

“I’m  busy  now,”  he  said,  his  eyes  straying 
to  the  rectangle  of  sand  where  the  Martian 
guards  stood  elbow  to  elbow.  “Tell  Mr. 
Doak  I’ll  see  him  tomorrow.”  He  turned 
back  to  his  instrument. 

It  was  a magnetic  detector  and  it  was  de- 
signed to  detect  and  to  trace  lines  of  mag- 
netic flux  now  present — or  soon  to  be  present 
— in  this  area.  He  was  aware  of  the  man 
speaking  again. 

“But  Mr.  Doak  said  immediately.” 

“I’m  busy  now.  He'll  have  to  wait.” 
“Mr.  Doak  is  not  used  to  waiting.” 
“Then  he’ll  have  to  get  used  to  it.” 

“But  this  is  important,”  the  man  from  the 
ship  insisted. 

“I’ll  say  it  is!”  Kennedy  said,  glancing 
up  at  the  rectangle  of  white  sand. 

Blount  cleared  his  throat.  “I  don’t  want 
to  urge  you,  but  Anders  and  I can  take  care 
of  everything  here.” 

“Et  tu,  Brute,”  Kennedy  said.  He  was 
perplexed  and  indignant.  It  was  most  im- 
portant that  he  stay  right  where  he  was  but 
it  was  also  important  that  he  do  nothing  that 
might  shut  off  part  of  the  flow  of  funds  to 
the  Council.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 
Thirty-three  minutes  before  the  deadline 
Tryor  had  set. 


THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES 


“All  right,”  he  said,  impatiently.  “But 
I’ve  got  to  be  back  here  in  twenty  minutes.” 

Swearing  under  his  breath,  he  stalked  off 
across  the  sand  toward  the  waiting  ship. 
The  three  men  followed  him.  The  lines  of 
Martians  guarding  the  rectangle  watched 
without  obvious  curiosity.  What  were  the 
doings  of  this  brawling  race  to  them,  who 
had  inherited  a thousand  centuries  of  tradi- 
tion and  wisdom  ? And  something  else, 
which  they  had  never  revealed  to  any  man. 

Doak  was  a big  man  with  heavy  shoulders 
and  a thick  neck  on  which  his  bullet-like 
head  sat  like  an  impatient  gargoyle.  His 
face  was  the  face  of  a frog  that  had  huffed 
and  puffed  and  huffed  and  puffed  and  blown 
himself  up  until  he  was  as  big  as  a man. 
They  shook  hands.  Doak  seemed  to  think  it 
was  the  thing  to  do. 

The  cabin  was  richly  furnished,  with  a big 
desk  with  a row  of  push  buttons  on  it,  and 
a swivel  chair,  both  bolted  to  the  floor.  There 
was  a viewport  with  the  sun  screen  open, 
so  that  the  city  of  Traxia  and  the  rectangle 
of  sand  and  the  Martian  guards  and  Blount 
and  Anders  were  visible. 

“You  wanted  to  see  me?”  Kennedy  said. 
He  would  be  polite  if  it  killed  him. 

“Yes,  yes.  I read  a copy  of  your  report.” 

“You  read  my  report?”  Kennedy  re- 
peated the  words,  in  a whisper,  to  make  cer- 
tain he  had  heard  them  just  right. 

“Yes.  Your  report  to  the  executive  com- 
mittee of  the  Council  on  your  preliminary 
investigations  on  Mars.”  Doak  gestured  to- 
ward the  viewport.  "It  was  very  interesting. 
In  fact,  it  was  the  reason  for  my  coming 
here.” 

“I’m  glad  you  found  it  interesting,”  Ken- 
nedy said.  “It  was  also  marked  TS — Top 
Secret.  Or  I thought  it  was  marked  that 
way.” 

“It  was  so  marked,”  Doak  said. 

"Are  you  on  the  Executive  Committee? 
Any  report  marked  TS  and  addressed  to  a 
committee  is  usually  read  only  by  the  mem- 
bers themselves.” 

DOAK  showed  no  signs  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

"That  is  true.  However  a few  of  us — ” 
he  hesitated. 

"VIPs,”  Kennedy  supplied.  “Very  Im- 
portant Peoples.  I get  it.”  His  voice  took 
on  a cutting  edge  and  he  stared  with  obvious 
distaste  at  the  man  sitting  across  the  desk 
from  him.  In  the  bade  of  his  mind,  a cloud 


77 

no  bigger  than  a man’s  hand,  was  the  sudden 
feeling  of  fear. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  he  could 
see  the  rectangle  of  sand,  and  beyond  that 
the  city  of  Traxia. 

A garden  spot,  a city  of  bright  crystal 
domes  of  rose  and  amethyst  and  coral  and 
sky  blue,  a city  of  winding  walks  that  curved 
in  and  around  the  low  domes  in  eye-delight- 
ing variety.  A flower  garden,  where  bloomed 
in  carefully  tended  plots  every  exotic  flower 
that  had  ever  put  forth  blossoms  into  the 
thin  air  of  this  ancient  planet. 

Running  along  each  walk  were  streams  of 
bright  clear  water,  irrigating  the  flowers, 
adding  freshness  and  beauty  to  a spot  al- 
ready so  beautiful  that  an  artist  would  go 
mad  trying  to  catch  the  color  tones  and  the 
balanced  symmetry  of  dissymmetry  expressed 
in  changing  curve  and  shifting  straight  line. 
Beyond  the  city  was  the  main  canal  going 
off  to  the  low  hills  which  once  had  formed 
the  shed  from  which  this  city  drew  its  water. 

The  reservoir  was  still  there,  the  hills  were 
there,  all  open  to  the  sky  from  which  no  rain 
had  fallen  for  a hundred  centuries.  And  the 
water  was  there  too,  in  the  reservoir.  It  was 
always  there,  flowing  through  conduits  that 
had  been  built  when  water  fell  from  clouds 
the  way  water  was  supposed  to  fall. 

Kennedy  had  seen  the  watershed,  the 
reservoir,  the  canals.  He  had  studied  every- 
thing— and  the  result  of  his  study  had  been 
baffled,  bewildered  perplexity.  Moses,  where 
art  thou?  he  though.  Moses,  with  thy  staff 
to  strike  the  rock! 

The  block  of  pure  white  sand  was  there 
too,  like  unexposed  picture  film,  like  clay 
waiting  the  touch  of  the  modeler’s  fingers, 
like  marble  awaiting  the  sculptor’s  chisel, 
like — Kennedy  shook  his  head.  Tryor  had 
permitted  him  to  examine  the  blueprints, 
complete  in  every  detail,  every  curve  of 
every  walk,  every  flower  bed,  every  rounded 
dome  of  pearl  or  coral.  Yes,  Tryor  had  said, 
the  population  increased.  Slowly  to  be  sure, 
but  it  increased.  And  increased  living  quar- 
ters were  needed — Doak  spoke  again. 

“I  was  greatly  interested  in  your  account 
of  the  Martian  eating  habits.  You  said  they 
eat  essentially  the  same  basic  foods  we  do, 
with  perhaps  some  variation  in  the  subtle 
vitamins.” 

“That’s  right,”  Kennedy  said. 

"But  you  added  that  you  had  not  been  able 
to  discover  the  source  of  the  Martian  food 
suoply.” 


78 


STARTLING  STORIES 


For  a second,  Kennedy  hesitated.  That, 
of  course,  was  the  essence  of  the  report.  It 
was  also,  in  essence,  the  secret  of  Traxia, 
and  of  every  other  city  on  the  Red  Planet. 
He  nodded,  slowly. 

“Nor  have  I been  able  to  discover  the 
source  of  their  water,"  he  said. 

“But  hang  it,  man,  they  eat,  don’t  they?” 
Kennedy  nodded. 

“They  drink  water,  don't  they?” 

“They  do.” 

“It’s  got  to  come  from  somewhere,  hasn’t 
it?” 

“Has  it?”  Kennedy  said. 

D OAK’s  face  revealed  that  he  liked 
neither  the  answer  nor  the  attitude  of 
this  field  man.  “What  about  farms?”  he 
said.  “Don’t  they  raise  their  grain  on 
farms  ?” 

“I  haven’t  seen  a farm  on  Mars,”  Ken- 
nedy answered. 

“ Hydroponics,  then  ? ” 

“Once  they  used  such  a system,”  Kennedy 
answered.  He  had  asked  Tryor  the  same 
question  at  least  fifty  times,  before  the  Mar- 
tian had  finally  understood  and  had 
answered.  “But  not  in  the  last  five  thousand 
years.” 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  He  could  give 
Doak  five  more  minutes. 

“But  they  manufacture  their  food  from 
grain,  don’t  they?” 

“They  certainly  do,”  Kennedy  answered. 
He  had  studied  that  too,  as  he  had  studied 
the  water  supply,  with  much  the  same  re- 
sult. “They  have  storage  bins  in  every  city 
in  which  they  keep  their  grain,  the  greater 
part  of  which  consists  of  a cereal  much  like 
wheat.  They  mill  it  much  as  we  do  on  earth 
and  it  conies  out  a very  good  grade  of  flour. 
From  there  it  goes  to  the  individual  homes 
and  is  baked  into  a hard  bread  which  they 
call  yussa — ” 

“But  how  does  the  grain  get  into  the 
elevators?”  Doak  demanded. 

“That  is  what  I have  never  been  able  to 
discover,"  Kennedy  said.  He  rose  to  his 
feet.  “Nice  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Doak.  I 
imagine  I’ll  be  seeing  more  of  you  before 
you  leave.” 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

Doak  didn’t  rise  to  speed  the  parting 
guest.  He  didn’t  seem  to  see  the  extended 
hand.  His  eyes  came  up  to  Kennedy’s  face 
and  his  gaze  was  cold. 

“Sit  down,”  he  said. 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Pressure  Goes  On 


KENNEDY  lifted  one  eye-brow  an 
eighth  of  an  inch.  He  had  always 
described  himself  as  one  part  scientist,  one 
part  mystic,  and  one  part  adventurer.  The 
remaining  quarter  of  him  was  pure  cut- 
throat. He  was  a combination  of  qualities 
and  character-traits  that  would  have  driven 
a psychiatrist  cock-eyed  trying  to  follow  the 
curves  and  twists  and  angles  and  knotty 
knobs  of  his  personality. 

As  a field  man  for  the  Council,  he  had  had 
need  for  every  knotty  knob  on  his  person- 
ality, as  well  as  a need  for  the  knowledge  of 
how  to  use  a pair  of  brass  knuckles  expertly 
in  a knock-down  drag-out  fight,  with  the 
loser  getting  a pair  of  spaceman's  landing 
boots  on  his  head  the  instant  he  was  knocked 
down. 

Doak,  apparently,  had  only  read  his  re- 
port and  had  not  gone  to  the  trouble  of 
checking  on  the  man  who  had  written  it, 
automatically  assuming  that  a scientist  good 
enough  to  be  a field  man  would  be  hollow 
chested,  have  flat  feet,  wear  glasses,  and 
would  possess  the  daring  of  a rabbit  whose 
mother  had  been  frightened  by  an  atom 
bomb. 

The  fact  that  Kennedy  was  none  of  these 
things,  that  he  stood  a good  six  feet  tall  and 
was  broad  in  proportion,  that  he  had  hot 
gray  eyes  and  did  not  wear  glasses,  did  not 
seem  to  mean  anything  to  Doak.  So  the 
financier  said,  “Sit  down.” 

“Go  chase  yourself,”  Kennedy  said. 

Doak  blinked.  “I — ” 

“That’s  from  me,  personally,”  Kennedy 
said.  “It  is  entirely  unofficial.” 

Doak  sat  up  very  straight  in  his  chair. 
Kennedy,  the  cut-throat  in  him  very  much 
in  control,  knew  he  shouldn’t  do  this.  But 
he  knew  he  was  going  to  do  it.  Reaching 
across  the  desk,  he  placed  one  big  hand  on 
Doak’s  shoulder— and  shoved  down. 

When  he  finished  shoving,  Doak  was  sit- 
ting very  low  in  the  chair.  The  financier 
looked  like  a surprised  frog  that  had  tried 
to  duck  hastily  under  water  but  had  forgot- 
ten to  close  his  mouth  as  he  went  under. 
Kennedy  grinned  at  him,  sweetly. 

“Again  unofficially,  but  so  far  as  I am  con- 


THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES 


cerned,  you  can  jump  in  the  lake!” 

Doak  tried  to  shove  the  chair  out  of  his 
way,  forgetting  it  was  bolted  to  the  floor. 
He  kicked  at  it  and  got  to  his  feet.  Kennedy, 
already  thinking  the  man  looked  like  a frog, 
had  no  difficulty  in  imagining  the  frog  spew- 
ing water  from  its  mouth  as  it  came  up. 

"Do  you  know  who  I am?”  Doak  said. 

"I  don’t  give  a cuss,”  Kennedy  said. 
"Take  it  easy,  big  shot.  And  if  you  discover 
the  source  of  the  Martian  grain  supply,  and 
of  their  water,  and  their  homes  and  every- 
thing else  they  possess,  let  me  know,  will 
you?  I’m  curious  myself.”  He  turned  to  the 
door. 

Doak  opened  the  drawer  of  his  desk.  The 
gun  there  was  an  automatic,  flat  and  thin, 
but  no  doubt  efficient.  Kennedy,  looking  at 
the  gun  in  Doak’s  hand,  saw  that  he  had 
made  a mistake.  Or  maybe  it  wasn’t  a mis- 
take. He  had  at  least  forced  the  issue  to  a 
head  and  knew  exactly  where  he  stood — in 
front  of  a gun. 

"Do  you  know  who  I am?”  Kennedy  said. 

"I  know,”  Doak  answered.  “And  I don’t 
give  a hoot,  either.  Sit  down,  Kennedy.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.” 

"I’m  a field  man — ” Kennedy  started  to 
say,  then  shut-  up.  He  had  intended  to  say 
that,  as  a field  man  for  the  UN,  he  packed  a 
little  weight  himself.  But,  looking  at  the 
gun,  he  realized  that  all  the  weight  he  actu- 
ally packed  was  concentrated  in  his  ability 
to  write  a report  which  would  be  read  by 
somebody  back  on  Earth,  and,  presumably, 
after  going  through  the  proper  channels, 
would  be  acted  on. 

All  of  which  would  take  a year.  Presum- 
ing he  was  able  to  write  the  report  in  the 
j first  place.  Presuming  he  had  a chance  to 
send  it  back  to  Earth.  And  presuming  Doak 
wasn’t  able  to  interfere  with  the  operation 
of  the  proper  channels,  which  was  doubtful, 
in  view  of  his  ability  to  read  a TS  report. 

Kennedy  looked  at  the  gun  again.  From 
his  position  at  this  moment,  Earth  was  a 
long  way  off.  The  gun  was  right  here.  He 
sat  down. 

Doak  grinned.  “I  read  your  report  with 
great  interest.  In  it,  you  hinted  that  a mir- 
acle was  responsible  for  the  Martian  food 
and  water  supply.” 

"I  hinted  at  no  such  thing.  A miracle  in- 
volves the  contradiction  of  known  natural 
laws.  So  I did  not  talk  of  a miracle.  But  I 
did  hint  that  the  Martians  seemed  to  know 
the  secret  of  spontaneous  generation  of  mat- 


79 

ter.”  Angry  tones  sounded  in  his  voice  as  if 
he  had  tried  to  understand  and  had  failed 
and  was  angry  at  his  inability  to  grasp  the 
solution. 

UT  he  knew  it  was  not  a solution  you 
just  reached  out  and  grasped,  as  a 
hungry  man  reaches  for  a hamburger. 

"Something  from  nothing?”  Doak  said. 

Kennedy  shook  his  head.  “Shall  we  say 
that  something  tangible  to  our  senses  comes 
from  something  intangible  to  our  senses.  It 
makes  a little  more  sense  if  you  put  it  this 
way.  Though  not  much  more.”  He  shook 
his  head  again. 

"I  don’t  understand  this,”  Doak  said. 

"I  don’t  either.” 

“I  want  to  understand  it.” 

“So  do  I,”  Kennedy  answered.  His  tone 
was  flippant.  Deliberately  so.  Doak’s  eyes 
glinted. 

The  financier  toyed  with  the  pistol.  “You 
are  a competent  scientist ; otherwise  you 
would  not  be  a field  man  for  the  UN.  You 
have  been  here  almost  two  years,  spending 
my  money,  investigating  this  phenomenon, 
without  results?  How  do  you  explain  your 
failure?” 

"I  don’t  explain  it.  I have  a hunch  I can 
easily  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  here,  without 
results.  ” 

"I  think  you’re  lying,”  Doak  said.  "I 
think  you  have  made  important  discoveries 
and  are  attempting  to  conceal  them.”  He 
sounded  outraged. 

“You’re  welcome  to  your  opinion,”  Ken- 
nedy said.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  then 
toward  the  viewport.  “In  just  a couple  of 
minutes,  you  will  know  as  much  as  I do. 
Look.” 

Involuntarily  Doak  turned  toward  the 
port,  then  spun  quickly  back  to  face  Ken- 
nedy, jerking  up  the  gun  as  he  did  so.  The 
field  man  hadn’t  moved  from  his  chair. 
Kennedy  laughed. 

"Did  you  think  I was  trying  to  trick  you? 
I wasn’t.  Watch  that  rectangle.” 

Doak’s  face  was  alive  with  suspicion.  “But 
nothing  is  there,  except  guards  around  a 
patch  of  sand.” 

"Watckr!”  Kennedy  said.  . . . 

In  the  sunlight  the  sand  was  smooth  and 
even.  It  had  been  smoothed  and  resmoothed 
during  the  preceding  weeks,  in  preparation 
for  this  event,  until  Kennedy  had  had  the  im- 
pression that  every  grain  of  sand  had  been 
counted.  The  thought  made  him  uneasy, 


80  STARTLING  STORIES 


vaguely  apprehensive.  Machinery  that  took 
into  consideration  every  grain  of  sand — 
What  kind  of  machinery  was  that  ? 

Outside  the  guards,  the  inhabitants  of 
Traxia  had  gathered  and  were  quietly 
watching.  Kennedy  could  see  Blount  and 
Anders,  busy  with  the  recording  equipment 
designed  to  trace  that  hidden  machinery. 
Where  was  it?  Under  the  city?  Or  else- 
where on  the  planet?  Blount  was  looking 
often  toward  the  ship,  watching  for  Kennedy 
to  return. 

Came  the  blue  haze. 

It  came  from  nowhere.  It  came  suddenly, 
with  no  sign  to  indicate  it  was  on  the  way. 
It  looked  like  wood-smoke  on  far-off  hills. 
It  fitted  the  rectangle  of  white  sand,  exactly. 

Kennedy  came  to  his  feet.  Doak  snatched 
up  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  to  cover  him  but 
he  strode  to  the  viewport  without  noticing 
the  weapon.  And  Doak,  after  glancing  at 
him,  let  the  gun  fall  to  his  side.  Doak 
watched  too. 

The  blue  haze  thickened.  Far-off  came 
a soft  crystalline  chiming  like  glass  bells 
ringing  as  they  blew  in  a gentle  breeze.  The 
sound  of  the  bells  entered  the  ship.  Kennedy 
wondered  how  that  fragile  chiming  pene- 
trated the  insulated  steel  hull,  but  penetrate 
it  did,  a distant  muted  chiming,  like  atoms 
rearranging  themselves  within  a crystal  lat- 
tice. Within  the  blue  haze  the  sand  began 
to  move.  Nothing  moved  it.  But  it  moved. 

Blount  and  Anders  were  working  with 
feverish  speed.  The  instruments  they  were 
operating  were  enormously  more  sensitive 
than  human  senses.  Kennedy  wondered  if 
they  were  sensitive  enough  to  catch  a glimpse 
of  the  sand  movers.  He  was  cold,  cold.  In 
the  blue  haze,  shapes  were  taking  outline. 
Like  mushrooms,  they  grew.  They  firmed 
and  their  outlines  hardened. 

“Domes!”  Kennedy  whispered. 

Somewhere  ringing  bells  exulted.  The 
walks  began  to  take  form. 

“Where  are  those  things  coming  from?” 
Doak  gasped. 

“Shut  up,"  Kennedy  growled,  deep  in  his 
throat. 

NNOTICED,  the  conduits  along  the 
walks  had  gone  in — and  had  been  con- 
nected with  the  regular  conduits  from  the 
city.  Water  flowed  now  along  the  walks. 
It  moved  along  the  porous  conduits  seeking 
— the  shrubs,  the  plants,  the  flowers,  came 
out  of  nowhere.  Kennedy  held  his  breath. 


The  swirling  crystal  notes  leaped  up  in  a 
flood — and  died.  The  blue  haze  vanished. 
Before  Kennedy’s  eyes,  on  what  had  been 
a rectangle  of  white  sand,  was — a new  subdi- 
vision of  the  city. 

The  domes  were  dwelling  places  for  a 
dozen  families,  perhaps  more,  perhaps  less. 
Each  complete  with  a flower  garden.  Soil 
and  water  where  there  had  been  sand.  Flow- 
ers blooming  in  the  desert. 

The  guards  moved  from  their  positions'. 
During  the  time  when  the  blue  haze  had  been 
in  existence,  the  watching  Martians  had  not 
moved.  Not  an  inch.  Now  they  began  to  file 
through  the  newly  created  section  of  their 
city,  examining  the  workmanship,  seeing 
that  everything  was  right,  checking  up  to  see 
if  the  sand  movers  had  done  their  job  well. 
Or  were  they  admiring  the  beauty  of  the 
place?  Kennedy  did  not  know.  Blount  was 
looking  desperately  toward  the  ship. 

“How’d  they  do  that?”  Doak  croaked. 

Kennedy  shrugged.  “You  saw  it.  You 
know  as  much  as  I do.  But  that  is  the  way 
they  get  their  grain — and  their  water.  The 
storage  bins  and  the  reservoirs — just  fill 
up.” 

“But  you  must  know  something  of  the 
process,”  Doak  said,  desperately.  “You’ve 
been  here  two  years.  You’re  a competent 

_ • ft 

SCI — 

“Blast  it,  man,  that’s  what  I’ve  been  try- 
ing to  discover!” 

Doak  hesitated,  his  eyes  on  Kennedy.  The 
frog  face  was  labored  with  thought.  A 
tongue  flicked  out  and  ran  along  the  dry 
lips. 

“How  would  you  like  to  continue,  on  my 
pay-roll?”  Doak  said. 

“What?”  Kennedy  gasped. 

“At  a hundred  thousand  a year!”  Doak 
said. 

“A  hundred  thousand  dollars!” 

“With  a bonus  of  half  a million  dollars, 
if  you  solve  the  secret,”  Doak  added. 

Kennedy  laughed.  He  couldn’t  help  it. 
It  was  time  to  laugh.  The  offer  was  so  silly 
it  was  ridiculous. 

“I’ll  make  the  bonus  a million,”  Doak 
said. 

Kennedy  gestured  toward  the  viewport. 
“You  idiot!  If  I knew  that  secret,  what 
would  a million  dollars  mean  to  me  ? Or  ten 
million?” 

Doak’s  face  hardened.  “I  was  afraid  you 
would  think  of  that,”  he  said.  He  moved 
quickly,  to  place  the  desk  between  him  and 


THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES 


Kennedy.  “So  I prepared  another  induce- 
ment. I believe  that  back  on  earth,  in  Miss 
Guthrie’s  private  school,  you  have  a twelve- 
year  old  daughter?” 

“What?”  The  sound  from  Kennedy’s 
throat  indicated  vocal  chords  in  danger  of 
being  torn  out  by  the  roots. 

Holding  the  gun  ready,  Doak  took  a news- 
paper clipping  from  his  desk.  He  shoved  it 
toward  Kennedy. 

CHILD  MISSING  FROM  EXCLUSIVE  SCHOOL 

Joan  Kennedy,  12-year-old  daughter  of  a UN 
employee,  was  reported  missing  yesterday.  The 
child,  whose  mother  is  dead  and  whose  father  is 
reported  to  be  on  Mars  on  an  exploring  trip,  has 
been  living  with  an  aunt.  No  evidence  of  violence 
was  found. 

The  muscles  in  Kennedy’s  neck  became 
ropes.  The  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 
His  face  turned  dull  gray.  “You  rat!  Is  it 
worth  that,  to  you?” 

"Yes,”  Doak  said. 

“Why?” 

Doak’s  eyes  glinted.  “If  they  can  create 
water  and  grain — and  a complete  subdivi- 
sion— they  can  create  other  things.” 

“What  things?” 

“That’s  my  business.  Your  business  is 
to  find  out  how.  That’s  all.  My  salary  and 
bonus  offer  still  holds  good.  In  addition — ” 
the  gun  centered  on  Kennedy’s  stomach. 
“ — you  will  get  your  child  back,  unharmed.” 
Kennedy  cursed  softly.  He  wiped  sweat 
from  his  face,  and  wished  there  was  some 
way  to  wipe  sweat  from  the  human  soul. 

“We’re  working  on  it,  right  now,”  he  said. 
“Those  twc  men  are  my  assistants.  The 
equipment  they  have  set  up  is  designed  to 
trace  the  machinery  that  created  the  new 
homes.” 

Doak’s  eyes  became  alive.  “There  is  ma- 
chinery ?” 

“There  must  be.” 

“But  it  is  hidden?” 

“Well  hidden!” 

“Do  you  think  your  men  have  succeeded 
in  locating  it?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  Kennedy  answered.  "But 
even  if  they  have  got  a line  on  it,  we  may 
need  time  to  locate  the  hiding  place.” 

“How  much  time?” 

"A  week,  a month,  six  months.  Man,  I 
don’t  know!” 

"Go  ask  them  what  they  have  discovered. 
Report  back  to  me  here  at  noon  tomorrow. 
And  one  more  thing — ” The  eyes  in  the  frog 


81 

face  were  like  shiny  beads.  "Don’t  try  any- 
thing, Kennedy.  This  ship  is  well  armed. 
My  men  are  loyal.”  He  nodded  toward  the 
clipping  lying  on  his  desk.  “And  even  if  you 
tried  to  kill  me,  and  succeeded,  there  would 
still  be  this.” 


CHAPTER  III 
Miracle  on  Mars 


IN  THE  strained  silence,  Kennedy  could 
hear  himself  breathing.  “Suppose  what 
we  saw — was  actually  a miracle?” 

"Miracles  result  from  the  operation  of 
unknown  laws.  Just  take  the  un  out  of  that 
word,  Kennedy.” 

"But  what  if  I can’t?” 

Doak  considered  the  question.  "The  Mar- 
tians know  where  the  machinery  is  located 
and  how  it  operates,”  he  said  at  last.  “I  can 
get  the  information  from  them,  if  you  fail.” 
He  pressed  a button  on  his  desk.  Behind 
Kennedy  a door  opened. 

“Show  this  gentleman  out,”  Doak  said, 
to  the  guard  who  entered. 

Kennedy  left  the  ship  and  walked  over 
to  where  Blount  and  Anders  were  fussing 
with  the  instrument.  They  seemed  to  be  dis- 
gruntled and  confused.  When  he  asked  them 
what  they  had  discovered,  they  paid  no 
attention.  He  repeated  the  question  and 
Blount  swung  around  with  outstretched 
hands. 

“But  we  didn’t  get  a thing,”  Blount  said. 
“Not  a single  thing.”  His  voice  was  angry. 
Kennedy  could  see  he  was  afraid. 

"What?”  Kennedy  said. 

Blount  made  a quick  gesture.  “Oh,  we 
got  a lot  of  stuff,  before  and  after  pictures, 
a partial  spec  analysis  of  that  blue  smoke, 
but  we  didn’t  get  a single  tracer  on  the 
source.” 

"But  that’s  impossible!”  The  pressure 
of  the  emotions  in  Kennedy  turned  his  nor- 
mal voice  into  a shout.  “We  saw  matter 
manipulated.  That  means  titanic  forces  were 
at  work.  The  magnitude  of  the  energies' 
flowing  in  that  area  while  those  domes  were 
being  constructed  was  great  enough  to  strain 
space  itself.  The  control  forces  did  not  have 
to  be  equally  strong  but  they  had  to  be  pow- 
erful enough  for  our  instruments  to  detect 
them.  You  blundered.” 


82 


STARTLING  STORIES 


Blount  shrugged.  He  was  hurt  at  what  his 
chief  said  and  at  the  tone  used.  But  more 
than  anything  else,  he  was  scared.  His  fin- 
gers were  trembling  and  his  left  cheek  was 
developing  a tic. 

“We’ve  got  to  find  that  machinery,”  Ken- 
nedy continued.  “Got  to ! I was  depending 
on  getting  a line  on  it  from  the  creation  of 
this  subdivision.” 

“I  know,”  Blount  said.  “But  we  didn’t. 
Either  the  control  forces  bypassed  our  de- 
tectors or  our  equipment  wasn’t  sensitive 
enough  to  catch  them.  You  can  look  at  the 
recordings  yourself.” 

Kennedy  turned  away.  If  Blount  said  the 
recordings  were  blank,  then  there  was  no 
use  in  anyone  else  looking. 

In  the  west  the  sun  was  setting  in  a cloud- 
less sky.  Long  shadows  reached  out  from 
Traxia.  The  new  subdivision  was  already  in 
shadow. 

The  population  had  increased,  Tryor  had 
said.  So  new  housing  had  been  provided. 
It  was  as  simple  as  that.  And  as  compli- 
cated. Back  on  Earth,  building  a new  subdi- 
vision was  also  a complicated  process, 
though  the  complications  were  different. 
They  involved  capital  and  labor,  the  work  of 
skilled  men,  conformity  with  a building  code, 
and  the  subtle  factors  of  profit.  And  other 
things. 

Trees  were  chopped  down  and  the  trunks 
sawed  into  lumber.  Clay  was  dug  and 
pressed  into  bricks.  The  lumber  and  the 
bricks  were  fitted  together,  each  in  its  proper 
place.  Copper  was  dug  for  electric  wires 
and  iron  for  nails.  Gravel  and  cement  for 
the  foundation.  If  plastics  were  used,  the 
manufacturing  processes  were  different,  but 
the  end-product  was  the  same  and  had  the 
same  function — a house  where  people  lived. 

On  Earth  you  could  follow  every  step  of 
the  process  if  you  wished.  You  could  watch 
the  trees  being  cut,  the  brick  clay  being  dug. 
You  could  see  the  raw  materials  with  your 
eyes,  feel  them  with  your  fingers,  taste  them, 
smell  them.  You  could  watch  the  men  build- 
ing the  house,  hear  the  ring  of  hammers 
driving  nails,  the  rasp  of  the  saw  cutting 
boards  to  exact  lengths. 

Here  on  Mars  you  saw  figures  moving  in 
a blue  haze,  you  heard  atomic  bells  ringing. 
Then  the  haze  was  gone  and  the  end  product 
was  before  your  eyes.  Dazed,  you  talked  of 
miracles. 

In  a ship  from  Earth  was  a man  who 
wanted  the  secret  of  that  miracle.  Kennedy 


did  not  doubt  that  he  knew  the  reason  why 
Doak  wanted  that  secret.  It  was  not  wealth. 
Doak  already  had  the  secret  of  wealth.  It 
was  power.  The  same  process  used  to  create 
a new  subdivision  could  also  be  used  to  cre- 
ate a fleet  of  space  ships.  The  machinery 
would  have  to  be  modified,  the  blueprints 
changed.  That  was  all.  The  man  who  knew 
that  secret  would  have  power  over  all  men. 

AT  THE  thought,  Kennedy  knew  he 
would  cheerfully  cut  Doak’s  throat 
from  ear  to  ear  and  spit  in  the  man’s  face  as 
he  bled  to  death.  When'  he  thought  of  the 
twelve-year-old  child,  kidnaped  back  on 
Earth  where  such  things  could  happen,  he 
knew  he  would  gladly  use  his  fingernails  to 
tear  Doak's  jugular  vein  from  his  throat. 
Fingernails  were  the  far-removed  remnants 
of  the  claws  that  men  had  needed  once,  to 
live,  and  needed  still,  and  would  need  as 
long  as  there  were  Doaks  in  the  universe. 

A step  sounded  in  the  sand.  Blount  was 
there  beside  him. 

“What’s  wrong?”  Blount  said  quietly.  “I 
know  something  is.” 

With  Blount  was  Tryor.  The  Martian’s 
ears?- large  for  picking  up  every  sound  trans- 
mitted by  the  thin  atmosphere,  were  turned 
toward  Kennedy,  questioningly.  His  figure 
was  almost  identical  with  the  human  figure, 
except  for  the  larger,  movable  ears  and  the 
slightly  smaller  eyes  with  their  extra  mem- 
brane to  cut  out  the  sand  glare  in  the  day- 
light. 

With  slight  variations,  nature  had  appar- 
ently almost  duplicated  the  human  body 
here  on  Mars.  As  to  whether  or  not  nature 
had  duplicated  the  human  mind,  no  one 
knew.  Kennedy  suspected  it  had  not.  Ever 
since  he  had  arrived  here  he  had  felt  that  the 
Martian  mind  was  different  but  where  that 
difference  lay,  he  did  not  know. 

Kennedy  looked  at  the  Martian.  In  his 
mind  a slow  thought  turned.  Tryor  knew 
where  the  machinery  was  hidden.  If  he  could 
reach  the  Martian’s  mind,  convince  Tryor 
of  his  desperate  need ! His  eyes  went  to  the 
ship,  dull  in  the  growing  twilight.  The  hate 
in  his  eyes  was  a living  thing. 

Tryor’s  ears  stood  straight  up.  “Help," 
the  Martian  whispered.  “You  want — you 
need — ” He  fumbled  with  unfamiliar  sounds 
and  with  alien  concepts  back  of  them.  “You 
— need  help  ?”  he  questioned. 

“Yes!”  Kennedy  breathed.  He  told  them 
what  had  happened. 


THE  SOUND 

“It’s  not  possible!”  Bount,  instantly  an- 
gry, blurted  out.  “He  can’t  get  away  with 
this.  Kidnaping  and  extortion  are  felonies. 

I don’t  care  who  Doak  is,  he  can  be  put  in 
jail  for  the  rest  of  his  life.” 

“He  can  be  but  will  he  be?”  Kennedy  an- 
swered. “The  courts  and  the  jails  are  on 
Earth.  Doak  is  here.  Tryor — ” 

The  listening  Martian  had  not  understood 
one  word  in  ten.  His  ears  drooped  and  he 
appeared  to  meditate.  Kennedy  waited. 
Wild  thoughts  of  shaking  the  information 
from  the  Martian  mind  flashed  through  his 
brain.  Hopeless  thoughts.  There  was  no 
way  of  shaking  comprehension  from  a mind. 
And  comprehension  was  what  was  needed. 

Kennedy  had  discussed  both  the  source  of 
the  water  supply  and  the  grain  with  Tryor. 
The  result  had  been  embarrassment  on  both 
sides.  Tryor  had  tried  to  explain.  He  had 
tried  hard  and  long.  Kennedy  had  been 
embarrassed  because  he  had  begun  to  suspect 
he  didn’t  have  the  mental  equipment  to  un- 
derstand the  explanation. 

Tryor’s  embarrassment,  he  had  suspected, 
had  resulted  from  the  unwillingness  of  the 
Martian  to  point  out  the  deficiency  of  the 
human  brain.  The  Martians  were  the  po- 
litest people  he  had  ever  known,  much  too 
polite  to  embarrass  a guest  by  saying  or 
hinting  that  he  was  actually  only  a high- 
grade  moron. 

“Again?”  the  Martian  whispered. 

Kennedy  told  it  again.  He  included  the 
fact  that  his  equipment  had  been  set  up  with 
the  idea  of  locating  the  hidden  machinery. 
Tryor  seemed  not  to  mind  that  at  all.  Ken- 
nedy was  relieved.  Though  there  might  have 
seemed  to  be  an  element  of  trickery  in  his 
own  actions,  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  he 
had  been  motivated  by  the  desire  to  know, 
and  by  nothing  else.  Tryor  seemed  to  under- 
stand, and  to  approve. 

But  the  rest  of  it — 

“Mond  noted  tef”  the  Martian  said. 
(“Can  you  draw  me  a picture?”) 

Kennedy  sighed.  Always  the  Martians 
wanted  a picture. 

“Come  my  house,”  the  Martian  said. 
“Draw  picture." 

“You  stay  here,”  Kennedy  said  to  Blount. 
“I’m  going  to  try  to  draw  a picture  of  the 
word  ‘help.’  ” 

“You  don’t  need  to  draw  a picture  for 
me,”  Blount  said,  hotly. 

“I  know.  But  you  can’t  work  miracles 
either.”  He  looked  at  the  ship  and  again  the 


OF  BUGLES  83 

hate  in  his  eyes  was  a living  thing.  Doak, 
you  made  a mistake,  he  thought. 

SIDE  by  side,  Kennedy  and  the  Martian 
walked  toward  the  city.  They  passed 
through  the  new  section  that  had  been  added. 
The  residents  were  already  in  their  new 
homes,  preparing  the  evening  meal. 

On  a plot  of  grass,  a child  was  playing  with 
a ball.  He  left  off  to  wave  at  the  strange 
alien  striding  along  the  winding  walk.  Ken- 
nedy waved  back.  In  the  thin  soft  air  was 
the  fragrance  of  flowers,  blooms  growing 
where  an  hour  earlier  had  been  the  sand  of 
the  desert.  A musical  instrument  was  tin- 
kling. 

“This  is  Paradise,”  Kennedy  whispered. 
“Paradise?”  Tryor  sought  the  meaning  of 
the  word.  “Picture?”  he  said,  hopefully. 

“There  are  no  pictures  of  Paradise.  It’s 
only  a dream  of  a land  without  hunger  and 
without  cold,  without  fear,  where  all  men 
have  enough  and  none  too  much.  You’ve 
got  it  here  in  this  city.  Or  you  had  it.”  He 
looked  back  at  the  space  ship  resting  on  the 
sand.  “Now  the  serpent  is  at  your  gate — 
in  a space  ship.” 

“Serpent?”  Tryor  questioned. 

Kennedy  uttered  an  exclamation  of  de- 
spair and  sighed. 

Tryor  lived  in  a rose-colored  dome.  Red 
flowers  bloomed  beside  the  door.  On  the 
walk,  Kennedy  paused.  “This  house?”  He 
made  gestures  with  his  hands.  “Was  it 
made  like  the  domes  I saw  yesterday?” 
“Yes,”  Tryor  said.  “Of  course.  How 
else?” 

The  question  seemed  to  astonish  him.  The 
fact  that  he  had  understood  it  astonished 
Kennedy  and  gave  him  hope.  Not  much 
hope,  perhaps,  but  a little.  They  entered 
the  dome.  Soft  lights  sprang  into  existence 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold.  Kennedy  had 
never  ceased  being  amazed  at  the  feeling 
of  comfort  in  this  simply-furnishd  place. 
Even  more  than  comfort,  the  feeling  here 
was  of  fitness,  of  rapport  with  ancient  uni- 
ties. 

He  knew  that  Tryor  spent  much  time  here, 
reclining  on  the  low  couch  against  the  wall, 
apparently  asleep.  But  actually  not  sleep- 
ing. Dreaming  would  be  a better  word  for 
it.  Dreaming  seemed  to  be  the  main  occupa- 
tion of  all  Martians. 

A people  who  lived  in  a land  where  manna 
fell  from  heaven  and  housing  problems  were 
solved  by  miracles  could  afford  to  dream. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


84 

But  humans  could  not.  Humans  still  had 
to  get  things  by  hard  work.  They  still  had 
to  fight  and  sweat,  to  know  neither  security 
nor  peace  of  mind.  Bugles  always  blowing ! 
The  challenge  of  soil  and  weather,  of  desert, 
mountain,  and  sea,  the  challenge  of  the  atom 
and  of  space,  these  men  had  met.  Did  the 
bugles  ever  cease? 

Here  on  Mars  they  had  ceased.  Or  had 
never  blown.  But  Kennedy  knew  that  was 
not  the  correct  answer.  The  slow  failure 
of  the  water  supply  over  the  centuries  had 
been  in  itself  a supreme  challenge.  The 
Martians  had  solved  it.  And  had  solved 
all  other  problems  with  it. 

Somewhere  there  was  machinery! 

Many  times  Kennedy  had  imagined  the 
nature  of  that  machine.  It  was  not  a me- 
chanical device  of  turning  gears  and  sliding 
valves.  That  was  much  too  crude.  Nor  spin- 
ning  generators  nor  grunting  atom  giants. 
Still  much  too  crude.  It  was  a machine  in 
which  the  moving  parts  were  molecules  or 
atoms  or  parts  of  atoms.  Maybe  it  was  elec- 
trical, maybe  it  utilized  some  form  of  energy 
that  men  had  not  discovered.  Out  from  it 
flowed  subtle  lines  of  force  that  transformed 
sand,  or  perhaps  the  intimate  fabric  of  space 
itself,  into  pre-determined  forms. 

“Picture?”  Tryor  said,  hopefully. 

Kennedy  tried  to  draw  a picture  erf  the 
word  Help.  True,  Tryor  had  used  the  word 
but  the  Martian  had  not  really  understood 
it.  All  he  had  got  was  an  impression  of  need. 
It  was  Kennedy’s  task  to  translate  that  im- 
pression into  concrete  terms.  Once  Tryor  got 
that  much  it  would  be  necessary  to  translate 
Doak  and  Doak’s  purpose  into  terms  that 
Tryor  could  grasp. 

Kennedy  drew  a picture  of  two  men,  one 
drowning  in  a pool,  the  other  standing  on 
the  bank.  The  man  in  the  pool  was  reach- 
ing up  a despairing  hand  to  the  man  on  the 
bank. 

Tryor  studied  it  and  looked  up  brightly 
to  Kennedy.  He  got  the  idea.  “Water?”  he 
said,  happily.  “You  want  water?” 

“No!”  Kennedy  said. 

“Bath  ?”  Tryor  said. 

“No,”  Kennedy  said. 

HE  DREW  another  picture,  this  time 
of  a woman  and  child,  gaunt  and 
starved.  Beside  them  a fat  man  gobbled  food 
from  an  overloaded  table.  They  held  out  their 
hands  to  the  eater,  begging  for  crumbs,  for 
life,  for  help. 


Tryor  studied  the  picture.  He  shook  his 
head.  “Wait,”  he  said.  He  left  the  house. 

When  he  returned,  he  had  six  Martians 
with  him.  One  by  one  they  examined  the 
pictures  while  Kennedy  tried  in  every  way 
he  knew  to  tell  them  what  he  needed  and 
what  they  needed.  If  he  failed,  they  were 
in  danger.  Before  Doak  was  through  with 
them,  they  too,  ;WOuld  need  help. 

Not  one  of  them  got  the  idea.  Suddenly 
Tryor  brightened  and  left  the  room.  He  re- 
turned with  the  child  that  had  been  playing 
ball.  At  sight  of  the  youngster  the  Martians 
nodded  to  each  other. 

The  child  studied  the  pictures.  He 
shrugged,  bounced  his  ball  on  the  floor,  and 
spoke  rapidly  in  the  ringing  bell  tones  of 
the  Martian  language,  bell  tones  with  sound 
nuances  so  subtle  that  no  human  ear  had 
ever  been  able  to  grasp  them.  The  Mar- 
tians listened.  They  turned  to  Kennedy.  He 
saw  comprehension  in  their  eyes. 

“A  kid  gets  the  idea  where  they  don’t 
get  it,”  he  mumbled.  He  was  acutely  un- 
comfortable. 

“Help,”  Tryor  rolled  the  word  around  his 
tongue.  He  had  the  idea  now  and  was 
shocked  by  it.  His  face  showed  pain.  Ken- 
nedy could  see  the  Martian  testing  the  word 
for  its  fringe  meanings,  following  the  idea 
out  from  its  basic  root  meaning  to  its  subtle 
secondary  implications.  If  you  needed  help 
you  were  in  danger,  if  you  were  in  danger 
it  was  because  something  threatened  you. 
What  threatened  Kennedy? 

The  field  man  drew  a picture  of  Doak  and 
of  the  space  ship,  he  put  a knife  in  Doak’s 
hand,  and  drew  another  picture  of  himself 
with  the  knife  threatening  him.  The  child 
looked  frightened.  But  he  translated  this 
picture  too.  And  the  Martians  understood 
at  least  that  Doak  threatened  Kennedy,  and 
them. 

They  whispered  to  each  other.  Tryor 
spread  his  hands.  "WThat  do  ?” 

Kennedy,  with  sweat  on  his  hands,  drew 
what  he  hoped  was  his  last  picture — of  the 
new  subdivision  coming  into  existence.  From 
it  he  drew  lines  of  force  radiating  to  the 
source  of  that  construction  miracle. 

“The  machines,”  he  whispered.  “The  ma- 
chines that  can  create  a subdivision  can  also 
create  weapons,  forces  powerful  enough  to 
disintegrate  Doak  and  his  space  ship.  Where 
are  the  machines?” 

This  was  his  plan,  to  use  the  titanic  en- 
ergies involved  in  the  miracle  his  own  eyes 


THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES 


had  seen,  to  obliterate  the  enemy  at  the 
gate. 

“Machines?”  Tryor’s  voice  wondered  over 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  “What  machines  ? 
There  are  no  machines.” 

“No  machines?"  Kennedy  gasped.  Deep 
in  his  heart  he  knew  that  Tryor  must  be 
lying.  There  had  to  be  machines.  Perhaps 
Tryor  had  not  actually  grasped  how  vital 
was  the  compulsion  that  drove  him. 

Kennedy  drew  his  last  picture  then,  of 
Doak  with  a knife  in  his  hand.  But  now  the 
knife  was  presented  at  the  throat  of  a child. 


CHAPTER  IV 
Helping  Hand 


CRUDE  and  melodramatic  as  was  the 
drawing,  it  was  no  more  so  than  life 
itself.  And  it  was  presented  on  a level  so 
low  as  to  prevent  misunderstanding  of  its 
meaning.  Basic  concepts  were  here,  the 
rawness  of  a knife  and  of  death.  The  voice 
of  the  Martian  child  translating  the  drawing 
was  the  plaintive  note  of  a frightened  bird 
awakening  in  the  night  and  crying  out  in 
fear.  The  child  understood  the  meaning  of 
that  picture,  too  well.  His  soft  whimper  filled 
the  room. 

Instantly  Tryor  was  on  his  knees  beside 
the  child,  whispering  to  him,  patting  him, 
telling  him  everything  would  be  all  right. 
The  other  Martians  crowded  around.  Ken- 
nedy was  forgotten.  The  Martians  patted 
the  child.  He  would  not  be  comforted.  Fi- 
nally in  desperation  one  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  from  the  room. 

Tryor,  his  eyes  blazing,  rose  to  his  feet. 
Never  before  had  Kennedy  seen  an  angry 
Martian.  He  saw  one  now. 

“You  frightened  child!”  he  hissed.  “Be- 
cause of  you,  child  grow  crooked  all  his  life. 
Child  never  forget.” 

It  sounded  like  a damning  indictment. 
Kennedy’s  voice  was  a choked  and  wretched 
thing. 

“I’m  sorry.  I was  trying  to  show  you  the 
pressure  that  is  on  me.” 

He  pointed  to  the  picture  he  had  drawn. 
“This  is  my  child,”  he  said. 

Tryor  grasped  the  meaning.  Apparently 
he  had  not  fully  understood  the  meaning  of 
the  child  in  the  last  picture.  Now  he  saw 


85 

it.  The  rage  began  to  go  from  his  face.  And 
little  by  little  a warm  sympathy  replaced  tire 
anger.  Tryor  understood ! 

Kennedy  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face. 
He  had  won  a battle.  The  lines  of  communi- 
cation were  open  at  last. 

Outside  in  the  night  was  the  sound  of  a 
man  running  and  a voice  calling,  hoarsely, 
“Kennedy!" 

Blount’s  voice. 

Kennedy  opened  the  door. 

“Eight  men  from  the  ship !”  Blount  panted. 
“They  jumped  us.  I think  they  killed  Anders. 
I got  away.” 

Something  had  gouged  a groove  down  the 
side  of  Blount’s  face.  Blood  still  flowed 
from  the  edges  of  the  cut. 

In  the  darkness  a human  voice  called. 
Running  footsteps  sounded.  Blount  turned 
a startled  head  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

“They  followed  me,”  he  whispered. 

“Come  in  this  dome,”  Kennedy  said. 
“Quickly !” 

Blount  moved  but  the  running  footsteps 
moved  faster.  From  the  soft  darkness  a 
powerful  flashlight  jutted  a sudden  stream 
of  blinding  light. 

“Stand  where  you  are !”  a voice  ordered. 

“They’ve  got  guns,”  Blount  whispered. 

“I  don’t  doubt  it,”  Kennedy  answered.  He 
turned  his  head  and  called  within  the  dome. 
“Tryor!”  There  was  no  answer.  The  run- 
ning feet  came  up  the  walk. 

“Get  your  hands  up !”  Guns  prodded  them. 
They  lifted  their  hands.  Fingers  probed  their 
pockets.  “They’re  dean,”  a voice  said. 

“Tryor!”  Kennedy  called  again. 

“Shut  up,  you!"  A fist  smashed  against  his 
mouth.  “Mr.  Doak?  Here  they  are,  sir.” 

“You’ve  got  Kennedy?”  Doak  called  from 
the  darkness. 

“Got  him!” 

Kennedy  hit  the  man  who  had  struck  him. 
All  the  pent-up  emotional  storm  raging  in 
him  gave  strength  to  the  blow.  The  man 
turned  a double  somersault  backward. 

“Tryor!”  Kennedy  called  again. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  flashlight 
poured  over  him  and  Blount.  Soft  clicks 
sounded  in  the  darkness,  safeties  being  re- 
leased. 

“Stand  still,  you!  If  you  don’t,  I’ll  blow 
you  in  two.” 

Kennedy  stood  still.  Blount  stood  still. 
Doak  came  out  of  the  darkness.  Doak  seemed 
pathetically  glad  to  see  the  field  man. 

“I  almost  made  a mistake,”  Doak  said. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


86 

“Uh!”  Kennedy  said.  “So  you  finally 
thought  of  that?” 

“I  thought  of  it,”  Doak  said.  He  spoke  to 
his  men.  “Find  out  what  is  in  this  house.” 
There  was  suspicion  in  his  voice.  And  fear. 

Kennedy  knew  that  Doak  had  realized  that 
the  machines  which  could  create  a new  sub- 
division could  also  create  weapons.  Doak 
was  afraid  of  those  machines,  desperately. 
But  Tryor  had  said  there  were  no  machines 
and  Tryor  had  failed  to  answer. 

A MAN  stepped  inside  the  door  of  the 
dome.  His  voice  came  back.  “Just  a 
bunch  of  goonies  squatting  in  a circle.  That’s 
all.”  The  voice  was  contemptuous  of  the 
Martians. 

Then  the  voice  came  again.  “There’s 
something  going  on  here  that  I don’t  under- 
stand. Come  and  look  at  this,  Mr.  Doak.” 
Doak  moved  forward.  Kennedy  followed. 
Doak  stepped  into  the  room.  Kennedy  halted 
in  the  doorway. 

Tryor  and  the  six  Martians  were  squatting 
in  a circle.  The  sound  of  the  clamor  outside, 
the  pound  of  Doak’s  footsteps  must  have 
been  clear  to  them,  but  they  did  not  turn. 
In  the  center  of  the  room,  like  a ball,  floated 
a sphere  of  blue  haze.  As  Kennedy  watched, 
the  haze  seemed  to  thicken  and  become  a 
darker  shade  of  blue.  He  felt  his  pulse  leap. 
The  blue  haze  of  the  sand  movers ! 

There  was  no  obvious  origin  of  the  blue 
sphere.  It  appeared  to  come  from  nowhere. 
Something  from  nothing,  he  thought.  Then 
his  own  phrase  came  back  to  his  mind. 
“Something  tangible  to  our  senses  comes 
from  something  intangible  to  them.”  This 
was  happening  here. 

The  blue  haze  thickened,  became  a ball 
a foot  in  diameter. 

“What  is  that  thing?”  Doak  said. 

The  Martians  did  not  answer.  Their  gaze 
was  concentrated  on  the  ball  with  a steadi- 
ness that  nothing  seemed  capable  of  pene- 
trating. The  ball  lifted  a foot  in  the  air.  It 
was  above  the  heads  of  the  squatting  Mar- 
tians. 

From  his  pocket,  Doak  jerked  the  flat 
automatic.  It  spouted  three  shots  at  the 
ball.  The  blue  haze  flickered  with  three  tiny 
points  of  glistening  light. 

Doak  looked  at  the  ball  and  then  looked 
beyond  it,  trying  to  see  where  his  bullets 
had  struck  the  wall  of  the  room. 

"They  went  in,”  he  said  slowly.  “But  they 
didn’t  come  out” 


He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  grasp  the  sig- 
nificance of  something  that  went  in  but  didn’t 
come  out.  With  a slow,  almost  imperceptible 
drift,  the  ball  began  to  move  toward  him. 

“Keep  that  thing  away  from  me !”  he 
shouted. 

The  squatting  Martians  seemed  not  to 
hear  him.  The  ball  continued  to  move.  The 
pistol  in  his  hand  swung  to  cover  Tryor. 

“I’ll  shoot  you !”  Doak  yelled. 

The  ball  darted  toward  him.  He  pulled 
the  trigger  of  the  gun.  In  the  quiet  room 
the  roar  was  thunderous.  The  bullets  went 
into  the  ball.  Turning,  Doak  fled  through 
the  door. 

Like  a maddened  bull,  Doak  plunged  from 
the  dome.  Kennedy  got  quickly  out  of  his 
way.  Behind  Doak,  moving  far  faster  than 
he  could  move,  came  the  blue  ball.  After 
he  left  the  open  doorway,  it  caught  him. 

He  screamed,  a sound  wrenched  from  a 
throat  in  mortal  pain  and  fear,  as  the  ball 
touched  him,  then  he  was  gone. 

Gone  in  a direction  that  no  eye  could  fol- 
low, gone  from  the  space  he  had  occupied 
to  some  other  space,  perhaps  gone  from 
something  tangible  to  the  senses  to  some- 
thing intangible  to  them. 

Kennedy  thought  he  saw  coruscating  pin- 
points of  light  flare  in  the  outlines  of  Doak’s 
body,  he  believed  he  saw  the  mouth  gulp 
once,  like  a frog  going  hastily  and  unwilling- 
ly under  water.  Then  the  frog  mouth  was 
gone  and  Doak  was  gone  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  doorway  of  Tryor’s  dome  ex- 
cept a floating  ball  of  blue  haze. 

“Ah!”  one  of  Doak’s  men  gasped.  They 
ran,  like  crazy  men,  and  they  looked  back 
over  their  shoulders  as  they  ran,  to  see  if 
the  ball  was  following  them.  It  floated  se- 
renely in  the  doorway.  The  running  foot- 
steps died  in  the  silence  of  the  Martian  night. 

“Come, ’’Tryor  whispered. “Come,  friend.” 

Kennedy  went  into  the  dome.  The  ball 
preceded  him.  It  took  up  its  position  again 
above  the  circle  of  squatting  Martians. 

“Tryor?”  Kennedy  said,  huskily. 

“No  talk,”  Tryor  answered.  “Listen.” 

On  the  Martian’s  face,  the  lines  of  con- 
centration deepened.  The  seven  stared  at 
the  ball.  There  was  silence  in  the  room.  The 
silence  grew.  There  was  a click,  as  of  a door 
being  unlocked  somewhere. 

“What  is  it?”  Kennedy  whispered.  Some- 
where a child  was  crying. 

A man  was  trying  to  comfort  her.  The 
sobs  turned  into  words. 


THE  SOUND  OF  BUGLES 


“Where’d  the  man  go?”  the  child’s  voice 
came.  “He  was  here  just  a minute  ago. 
You're  a policeman,  aren’t  you?” 

“I’m  a policeman,”  the  man’s  voice  said. 
“I  want  my  daddy,”  the  child’s  voice  said. 
“I  want  my  auntie.  I want  to  go  home.” 

FROM  Kennedy’s  throat  came  wild 
words.  “Joan!  Jbanie!  I’m  here,  Joan. 
Are  you  all  right,  Joan?” 

“Daddy!”  the  child’s  voice  was  a shout 
of  glee.  “I’m  all  right,  Daddy.  Where  are 
you  ? I can  hear  you  but  I can’t  see  you !” 
The  gruff  voice  spoke  again.  “Now,  now, 
child.  Your  daddy  ain’t  here.  He’s  on  Mars. 
But  I’m  here  and  everything  will  be  all 
right.  Don’t  you  worry  none.  I’ll  take  care 
of  you.”  A gruff  but  soothing  voice,  it  was, 
a kindly  voice,  but  a startled  voice  too. 

“But  my  daddy  is  here,”  the  child  pro- 
tested. “I  just  heard  him.  Daddy!” 

“Go  with  the  policeman,  Jbanie,”  Kennedy 
said  in  choked  tones.  “Go  with  the  police- 
man. 1*11  be  home  by  the  next  space  ship. 
Go  with  him.” 

“What  the  devil  is  that?”  the  startled 
policeman  gasped.  “Who  are  you?  Where 
are  you  ?” 

The  blue  ball  vanished.  It  went  into  noth- 
ingness, vanished  into  nowhere.  The  voice 
of  the  policeman  was  silent. 

The  squatting  Martians  relaxed.  The 
concentration  disappeared  from  their  faces. 
Tryor  smiled. 

“That  was  my  child !”  Kennedy  whispered. 
“I  heard  her.”  Tryor  waved  his  hand  in  a 
little  gesture  that  indicated  the  spot  the  blue 
haze  had  occupied.  “Through  that  we  reach 
all  space,”  he  said. 

Kennedy  sighed.  “I  knew  you  had  ma- 
chines, somewhere,”  he  said.  He  did  not  in 
the  least  understand  how  this  squatting  group 
had  reached  the  operators  of  the  machines 
or  how  they  had  made  their  wishes  known 
or  how  they  had  translated  their  wishes  into 


87 

effective  action  across  even  the  void  of  space. 
But  it  was  not  too  important  to  know,  now. 
Later  he  could  learn. 

Tryor  shook  his  head.  “No  machines,”  he 
said,  smiling.  “It  is  here.”  He  tapped  his 
forehead  and  groped  for  words.  “A  some- 
thing you  have  not  yet,  a piece  of  tissue,  a 
lobe — ” The  faltering  words  went  into  si- 
lence. “Here,  through  this  lobe,  we  touch 
all  things,  change  all  things.  How  say  ? How 
say  ?” 

The  words  groped  into  silence. 

“Good  grief !”  Kennedy  whispered.  A piece 
of  tissue,  a brain  lobe,  that  was  the  ultimate 
machine.  No  spinning  generators  or  grunt- 
ing atom  giants.  No  wheels,  no  cogs,  no 
levers.  Moving  atoms,  shifting  bits  of  ulti- 
mate matter.  The  lobe  of  a brain. 

“But  how  did  you  develop  such  a thing?” 

Tryor  knew  the  answer.  Tryor  tried  to 
explain.  When  in  the  long  ago  the  clouds 
had  stopped  forming  and  the  reservoirs  had 
stopped  filling,  when  the  desert  had  come  up 
over  the  fat  farm  lands,  when  the  Martians 
had  faced  death  and  extinction,  there  had 
been  born  a mutation,  with  the  extra  lobes. 

“We  are  his  sons,”  Tryor  said,  smiling. . . . 

Outside,  in  the  star-bright  Martian  night, 
Kennedy  tried  to  understand  what  he  had 
learned.  In  an  extra  brain  lobe,  the  Mar- 
tians had  found  the  secret  of  Paradise. 

It  was  a secret  the  human  race  could  prob- 
ably never  probe,  and  almost  certainly  could 
never  duplicate.  A freak,  a sport,  a mutation. 
The  chances  of  nature  ever  duplicating  it 
again  were  ten  times  ten  high  ten — against. 

For  a moment,  he  was  sad.  Then  the  sad- 
ness was  gone.  He  straightened  his  shoul- 
ders. For  one  race  there  was  one  destiny,  for 
another  race  there  was  another  destiny.  What 
the  Martians  had  received  as  a gift  of  the 
gods,  humans  would  have  to  achieve  with  the 
work  of  their  own  calloused  hands. 

Ahead  of  him,  ahead  o(  all  men,  were 
bugles  blowing. 


Next  Issue’s  Featured  Novel  of  the  Future 

FLIGHT  INTO  YESTERDAY  by  CHARLES  L.  HARNESS 


The  Loot  of  Time 

( Copyricht , 1988,  bf  Better  Publications,  Inc.) 


Scaly  men  were  coming  out  of  the  strange  meckamiai 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Time  Tractor 

HUGH  CAMERON  rose  from  his 
knees  and  dusted  his  hands.  He 
looked  at  Jack  Cabot  and  Conrad 
Yancey  and  the  two  of  them  stared  back  at 
him,  questioningly. 

"We’re  ready  to  go,”  Cameron  announced. 
“I’ve  checked  everything.” 

Marooned  in  the  Past, 


"You  give  me  the  willies,”  Yancey  spoke 
flatly.  "Checking  and  rechecking.” 

"Got  to  make  sure,”  Cameron  told  him. 
“Can’t  take  any  chances,  not  on  trip  like 
this.” 

Cabot  shoved  up  his  hat  and  scratched  his 
head. 

"Are  you  sure  that  the  theory  and  the 
mechanism  are  all  right,  Hugh?”  he  asked 

a Party  of  Travelers 


88 


4 Hall  of  Fame  Novelet 

by  CLIFFORD  D*  SIM  AK 


anxiously.  "I  still  have  a feeling  we’re  all 
crazy.” 

Cameron  nodded.  “Near  as  I can  make 
out,  Jack,  it  will  work.  I’ve  gone  over  it 
step  by  step.  Pascal  has  something  here 
that’s  unique.  A theory  that  has  no  precedent 
— treating  time  as  something  abstract,  but 
using  that  very  basis  for  time-travel.” 

“It  would  take  a guy  who  got  kicked  out 
of  Oxford  for  saying  Einstein’s  relativity  the- 


ory was  all  haywire,  to  make  something  like 
this,”  observed  Yancey. 

Cameron  pointed  to  a crystal  globe  atop 
a mass  of  intricate  machinery. 

“The  whole  answer  is  in  that  time-brain,” 
he  said.  “That’s  the  one  thing  I can’t  figure 
out.  How  he  made  it  I don’t  know.  But  it 
works.  I have  proof  of  that.  The  rest  all 
checks.” 

“Pascal  has  taken  the  position  that  time  is 


Sends  an  SOS  Ringing  Far  Into  the  Future! 

89 


STARTLING  STORIES 


90 

purely  subjective.  That  it  has  no  existence  in 
fact.  That  it  is  only  a mental  concept,  but 
something  that  is  entirely  necessary  for  orien- 
tation.” 

"That’s  the  part  I can’t  get  my  teeth  into,” 
protested  Cabot  “It  seems  to  me  that  if  a 
man  were  going  to  travel  in  time,  there’d 
have  to  be  an  actual  factor.  Otherwise  it 
would  not  obey  mechanical  rules.  There’d  be 
no  theater  for  mechanical  operation.  In  other 
words,  just  how  are  we  going  to  travel 
through  something  that  doesn’t  exist?” 

CAMERON  lit  a cigarette  and  tried  to 
explain.  "Your  mind  sticks  on  the  me- 
chanical part,”  he  said.  “Pascal’s  theory  isn’t 
all  mechanics  or  all  mathematics,  although 
there’s  plenty  of  both.  There’re  a lot  of 
psychological  concepts  and  that’s  one  place 
where  they  come  in.  He  figures  that  even  if 
time  is  non-existent,  even  if  it  has  no  factual 
identity,  that  the  human  brain  has  a well- 
developed  time-sense.  Time  seems  entirely 
natural  to  us.  Viewed  from  the  commonplace 
point  of  view,  there  is  absolutely  no  mystery 
about  it.  It  is  firmly  embedded  in  the  human 
consciousness. 

“Pascal  figured  that  if  you  constructed  a 
mechanical  brain  you  could  construct  it  in 
such  a manner  that  its  time-sense  would  be 
enormously  magnified.  Maybe  ten  thousand 
times  that  of  a human  mind.  Maybe  more. 
There’s  no  way  to  tell.  So  Pascal  not  only 
constructed  the  mechanical  counterpart  of  a 
human  brain,  but  he  constructed  it  with  an 
exaggerated  time-sense.  That  brain  over 
there  knows  more  about  time  right  now  than 
the  human  race  will  ever  know.  Nobody  else 
on  Earth  could  have  done  it  No  Twentieth 
Century  man.  Pascal’s  a wizard.  That’s  what 
he  is.” 

“Listen,  Hugh,”  said  Cabot.  "I  want  to 
be  sure.  I sent  over  to  America  had  you 
come  out  to  London  because  I knew  that  if 
any  man  could  tell  me  anything  about  this 
pipe-dream  it  would  be  you.  I want  you  to 
feel  absolutely  certain.  I can’t  understand  it 
myself.  I figure  you  can.  If  you  have  any 
doubt  say  so  now.  I don’t  want  to  get  stuck 
halfway  back  in  time.” 

Cameron  puffed  away  at  his  smoke.  "It 
isn’t  a pipe-dream,  Jack.  It’s  the  goods.  The 
time-sense  in  the  brain  is  developed  to  a point 
where  it  has  an  ability  to  assume  mastery 
over  time.  It  can  move  through  time.  What’s 
more,  it  can  move  the  time-tractor  through 
time — with  all  of  us  inside  the  tractor.  Not 


hypnotism,  because  in  hypnotism  you  only 
think  you’re  some  place  or  doing  something 
that  isn’t  so. 

“The  brain  actually  can  move  back  and 
forth  in  time  and  it  can  move  us  back  and 
forth  in  time.  It  develops  some  sort  of  a 
force.  Not  electricity.  Pascal  thought  it  was 
at  first.  But  it  isn’t,  though  it’s  related  to 
electricity.  For  want  of  a better  term  we 
might  call  it  a time-force.  That  describes  it 
well  enough.  It  develops  this  force  in  suffi- 
cient amount  to  operate  the  control  mechan- 
ism that  guides  the  brain’s  movement  through 
time.  ” 

He  flipped  his  hands  helplessly.  “That’s 
all  I can  tell  you  The  rest  of  it  is  mathe- 
matics that  would  be  pure  Greek  to  you  and 
mechanics  that  you’d  have  to  take  eight  years 
of  college  to  understand.”  He  looked  at 
Cabot.  “You’ll  have  to  take  my  word  for  it, 
Jack,  that  the  blamed  thing  will  run.” 

Cabot  smiled.  “That’s  good  enough  for 
me,  Hugh,”  he  said. 

A shadow  blotted  out  the  sunlight  on  the 
floor. 

The  three  looked  toward  the  door. 

Dr.  Thomas  Pascal  stood  there,  a white- 
haired  man  with  a face  that  was  almost  child- 
ish in  its  simplicity.  He  was  one  of  1940’s 
scientific  wizards. 

“All  ready  to  start?”  he  asked  cheerfully. 

Cameron  nodded.  “Everything  seems  all 
right.  Doctor,”  he  said.  “I’ve  checked  every 
cable,  every  cog,  every  contact.  They’re  all  in 
perfect  order.” 

“All  right,  then,”  growled  Yancey.  “What 
are  we  waiting  for.  I’m  all  set  to  slaughter 
me  a saber-tooth.” 

"You’ll  find  plenty  of  them,”  Pascal  told 
him.  “I  told  you  I’d  take  you  to  a virgin 
game  field.  A place  where  a rifle  shot  had 
never  been  fired.  That’s  what  I’m  going  to 
do.” 

Cameron  laughed.  “Doctor,”  he  asked, 
"how  did  you  ever  get  the  idea  of  selling 
these  t’/o  mad  hunters  on  tins  proposition? 
A hunting  trip  back  into  time.  That’s  one 
for  the  records.” 

“I  needed  money  to  finish  the  tractor,” 
Pascal  told  him,  “so  I cast  around  for  some- 
one who  might  be  interested,  but  interested 
in  such  a way  that  my  invention  would  not  be 
used  for  base  ends.  Then  I heard  of  Mr. 
Cabot  and  Mr.  Yancey.  Plenty  of  money. 
Famous  hunters.  What  could  be  more  appeal- 
ing to  them  than  a hunting  trip  back  into  the 
past?  But  they  weren’t  easy  to  convince. 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


91 


They  listened  only  when  I consented  to  let 
you  check  the  entire  machine.” 

T THIS,  Cabot  shook  his  head  stub- 
bornly. “Doctor,  you  still  have  to  show 
me  those  game  fields  back  in  the  Riss-Wurm 
interglacial  period.  It’s  fifty-thousand  years 
or  more  back  there.  A long  ways  to  go.” 

“You’ll  eat  mammoth  steak  for  dinner  to- 
night,” Pascal  told  him. 

“If  you’re  going  to  make  good  on  that 
promise,”  Cameron  suggested,  “we  better 
get  started.  All  our  supplies  are  stored,  the 
machinery  is  checked.  We’re  ready.” 

“All  right,”  agreed  Pascal.  “Will  some- 
one shut  the  door  and  make  sure  the  ports 
are  closed?” 

Yancey  walked  to  the  doorway,  reached 
out  to  pull  the  door  shut  and  lock  it.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  still,  staring  out  over  the 
green  hills.  There,  only  a few  miles  away, 
lay  the  village  of  Aylesford.  And  beyond  lay 
the  valley  of  the  Thames,  a country  steeped 
in  legend  and  history.  In  a few  minutes  they 
would  be  moving  back  through  and  beyond 
the  days  which  had  given  rise  to  that  legend 
and  history.  Two  American  hunters  on  the 
maddest  hunting  trip  the  world  had  ever 
known. 

Yancey  closed  the  door,  chuckling.  “Won- 
der how  much  lead  it  takes  to  stop  a saber- 
tooth?” he  mused. 

Turning  back  to  the  interior  of  the  great 
tractor,  he  saw  that  the  time-brain  was  glow- 
ing greenly.  Dr.  Pascal,  standing  before  it, 
seemed  like  a tiny,  misshapen  gnome,  work- 
ing before  a fiery  furnace. 

“Door  closed  and  locked,”  Yancey  re- 
ported. ' ' 

“Ports  all  right,”  said  Cabot. 

“Okay,”  replied  Pascal. 

Machinery  hummed  faintly,  nothing  more 
than  a whisper  of  a sound.  . . . 

There  was  nothing  to  indicate  they  had 
left  the  present,  were  moving  backward 
through  time,  but  when  Yancey  looked 
through  a port,  he  choked  back  an  exclama- 
tion. There  was  nothing  outside  the  port.  Just 
a blank,  flat,  gray  plane  of  nothingness,  with 
now  and  then  shadows  that  flitted  and  were 
gone. 

Pascal  sucked  in  his  breath  as  the  tractor 
rocked  and  bumped.  The  gray  outside  the 
port  grew  less  dense.  Objects  became  faintly 
discernible. 

“We’re  .going  too  fast,”  Pascal  explained. 
“Ground  seems  to  be  raising.  Have  to  take 


£OME  stories  are  forgotten 
almost  as  soon  as  they  are 
printed.  Others  stand  the 
test  of  time. 

Because  “The  Loot  of 
Time,”  by  Clifford  D.  Sim- 
ack,  has  stood  this  test,  it 
has  been  nominated  for  SC  I - 
ENTIFICTION'S  HALL  OF 
FAME  and  is  reprinted  here. 

In  each  issue  we  will  honor  one  of  the  most  out- 
standing fantasy  classics  of  all  time  as  selected  by 
our  readers. 

We  hope  in  this  way  to  bring  a new  permanence 
to  the  science  fiction  gems  of  yesterday  and  to  per- 
form a real  service  to  the  science  fiction  devotees 
of  today  and  tomorrow. 

Nominate  your  own  favorites!  Send  a letter  or 
postcard  to  The  Editor,  STARTLINC  STORIES,  10 
East  40th  St.,  New  York  16,  N.  Y.  All  suggestions 
are  more  than  welcome! 


it  slower.  We  might  hit  something.  Most 
things  wouldn’t  stop  us,  but  there’s  no  use 
taking  chances.” 

“Sure  the  ground  is  rising,”  Cameron  told 
him.  “Maybe  by  this  time  there  isn’t  any 
English  channel.  Back  in  the  Riss-Wurm 
period  the  British  Isles  were  connected  with 
the  continent.  The  Thames  flowed  north 
through  the  North  Sea  basin  to  reach  the 
North  Sea. 

The  gray  outside  the  ports  thinned  even 
more.  The  tractor  rocked  like  a boat  in  a 
gentle  swell.  Then  the  grayness  turned  to 
white,  a dazzling  white  that  blinded  Yancey. 
The  tractor  moved  sharply  upward,  seemed 
to  be  riding  a huge  wave,  then  dropped  but 
more  slowly. 

“We  just  passed  the  Wurm  glacier,"  Pas- 
cal told  them.  “We’re  in  the  Riss-Wurm 
now.” 

“Take  it  just  a little  easier,”  Cameron 
warned  him.  “That  last  bump  busted  a tube 
in  the  field  radio.  We  can  fix  that,  but  we 
may  need  that  radio.  We  don’t  want  to  smash 
it  entirely.” 

Outside  the  port  now  Yancey  could  make 
out  objects.  A tree  became  clearer,  was 
sharply  defined  and  beyond  it  Yancey  saw 
solid  landscape,  bathed  in  a rising  sun. 

He  heard  Pascal’s  voice. 

“Seventy  thousand  years,  approximately,” 
he  said.  “We  should  be  where  we  intended 
to  go.” 

But  Yancey  was  intent  on  the  scene  out- 
side. The  tractor  stood  on  the  top  of  a high 
knoll.  Below  unfolded  a panorama  of  wild 
beauty.  Rolling  hills  fell  away  to  a wide  val- 


ISCIENTlFICTIONl 


STARTLING  STORIES 


82 

ley,  green  with  lush  grass,  while  in  the  dis- 
tance a stream  caught  the  sunlight  of  early 
dawn  and  glinted  like  a ribbon  of  silver.  And 
on  the  hills  and  in  the  valley  below,  were 
black  dots,  feeding  game  herds,  some  so  close 
he  could  make  out  individual  animals.  Others 
mere  black  spots. 

Yancey  whistled  soundlessly.  He  wheeled 
from  the  port.  "Jack,”  he  began  breathlessly, 
"there  are  thousands  of  herds  out  there — ” 
But  Cabot,  he  saw,  had  already  unlocked 
the  door. 

THE  four  of  them  stood  grouped  in  the 
doorway  and  stared  out.  Pascal  smiled. 
"You  see,”  he  reminded  them,  “that  I told 
you  the  truth.” 

Cabot  drew  in  his  breath  sharply. 

"You  sure  did,”  he  admitted.  "I  doubt  if 
Africa  in  its  prime  was  better  than  this.” 
"An  overlapping  of  fauna,”  said  Pascal. 
"The  Old  Stone  Age  merging  with  the  mod- 
ern. One  type  dying  out,  another  coming  in. 
The  most  diversified  and  plentiful  game  herds 
that  ever  existed  on  the  face  of  the  earth  be- 
fore or  since.  The  cave  bear,  the  saber-tooth, 
the  cave-hyena,  the  mammoth  and  wooly 
rhinoceros  living  coincidentally  with  vast 
herds  of  wild  ox,  reindeer,  Irish  elk  and  other 
animals  of  more  recent  times. 

“Some  hunting!”  said  Yancey. 

Cabot  nodded  in  agreement.  He  stepped 
down  from  the  door  onto  the  ground.  "Let’s 
stretch  our  legs,”  he  suggested. 

“Can’t  right  now,”  said  Cameron.  "Have 
to  check  over  the  machinery.  I want  to  be 
sure  everything’s  all  right.” 

Yancey  jumped  to  the  ground. 

"You  fellows  had  better  take  your  rifles,” 
warned  Cameron. 

Cabot  laughed.  “We  have  our  revolvers,” 
he  said.  “We  aren’t  going  far  away.” 

The  two  hunters  walked  slowly  wonder- 
ingly,  away  from  the  tractor.  The  ground 
beneath  their  feet  was  soft  to  the  tread  with 
thick  grass.  Head-high  thickets  spotted  the 
hillsides  that  sloped  away  toward  the  river. 
On  some  of  the  hills  reared  great,  grotesque 
rock  formations.  And  everywhere  was  game. 

Yancey  halted  and  lifted  a pair  of  binoc- 
ulars to  his  eyes.  For  several  minutes  he 
stood  studying  the  landscape.  Then  he  low- 
ered the  glasses  and  slipped  the  thong  from 
his  neck.  He  handed  them  to  Cabot. 

“Take  a look,  Jack,”  he  invited.  “You 
won’t  believe  it  until  you  see  it  with  your  own 
eyes.  There’s  a herd  of  mammoths  down  by 


the  river.  That  dark  spot  just  this  side  of  the 
big  groove.  And  there’s  another  big  bunch 
up  the  river  a bit.  I picked  up  a few  woolly 
rhinos.  And  bison,  something  like  the  old 
American  buffalo.” 

"Bos  bisons,”  said  Cabot.  “I  read  up  some 
on  Stone  Age  animals  the  last  few  weeks. 
Primitive  form  of  bison.  Maybe  we’ll  be  able 
to  get  a few  Bos  latifrons.  Big  brutes  with  a 
horn  spread  of  ten  feet.  But  maybe  they’re 
extinct.  They’re  the  grandpappies  of  those 
fellows  out  there.” 

“What’s  that  big  bunch  across  the  river?” 
Yancey  asked. 

Cabot  trained  the  glasses  in  the  direction 
of  Yancey’s  pointing  finger. 

“Irish  elk,”  he  pronounced. 

A coughing  roar  brought  the  two  men  half- 
way around.  What  they  saw  held  them  petri- 
fied for  a moment. 

Less  than  a hundred  feet  away,  at  the 
edge  of  a thicket,  through  which  he  must 
have  come  without  a sound,  stood  a massive 
bear.  A huge  beast,  six  feet  at  the  shoulders. 
He  was  dark  brown  in  color  and  he  was 
angry.  He  rocked  gently  from  side  to  side 
and  champed  his  jaws.  From  his  chest  rum- 
bled a growl  that  seemed  to  shake  the  earth. 

"For  Heaven’s  sake,”  hissed  Cabot,  “don’t 
move  fast!  Edge  over  toward  the  tractor 
easy.  That  boy  is  ready  to  charge!” 

Yancey’s  hand  dropped  to  his  gun  butt. 
Out  of  the  tail  of  his  eyes  Cabot  caught  the 
motion. 

“Yancey,  you  fool,”  he  whispered  husk- 
ily, "keep  your  hand  away  from  that.  A 
forty-five  slug  wouldn’t  more  than  tickle 
him.” 

Slowly  the  two  men  backed  away  from  the 
bear,  back  toward  the  towering  gray  form 
of  the  time-tractor,  their  eyes  never  leaving 
the  monstrous  beast  that  stood  swaying  be- 
fore them.  The  bear  was  working  himself 
into  a rage.  His  chest  rumbling  was  almost 
continuous  now,  like  a train  crossing  a long 
trestle.  He  snarled  and  the  snarl  was  a 
sound  of  raw  fury  that  sent  cold  shivers  up 
Cabot’s  spine. 

AUTIOUSLY  they  paced  their  slow 
backward  march.  Yancey’s  heel  caught 
in  a root  and  he  stumbled,  but  righted  him- 
self quickly.  The  bear  growled  thunderously 
and  shook  his  head.  Foam  from  his  drool- 
ing jaws  flecked  the  massive  brown  shoul- 
ders. 

Then  the  bear  charged.  With  no  apparent 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


preliminary  move  he  launched  into  full  mo- 
tion, with  the  speed  of  an  avalanche. 

“Run,”  shrieked  Cabot,  but  his  cry  was 
drowned  out  by  a blasting  report.  The 
charging  bear  lurched  forward,  struck  head 
and  shoulders  on  the  ground  and  somer- 
saulted. 

Cabot,  racing  toward  the  time-tractor  saw 
Cameron  and  Pascal  framed  in  the  dooway, 
heavy  elephant  guns  at  their  shoulders. 

“Wait,”  roared  Cabot.  “Make  the  second 
shot  count!” 

In  three  leaps  he  was  beside  the  tractor 
door. 

Pascal  shoved  the  gun  at  him. 

“Never  shot  one  before  in  my  life,”  he 
told  Cabot. 

Cabot  spun  about,  gun  in  hand.  The  bear 
was  on  its  feet,  swaying  heavily  from  side  to 
side.  Its  small  pig  eyes  gleamed  balefully  and 
red  foam  flecked  its  jaws  and  shoulders. 

Deliberately  Cabot  brought  the  gun-barrel 
up,  centered  the  sights  squarely  between  the 
two  eyes  and  squeezed  the  trigger.  The 
bear  coughed  gently  and  rolled  over. 

Yancey  wiped  his  brow  with  the  back  of 
his  hand.  “Closest  shave  I’ve  had,”  he 
confessed. 

“Cave  bear,”  said  Pascal.  “Just  one  of 
the  big  life-forms  you  will  find  here.” 

Cameron  stepped  down  from  the  tractor. 
“You’ll  find  out  these  animals  aren’t  the  gun- 
shy  brutes  you  two  have  been  hunting,”  he 
stated.  “These  babies  don’t  fear  man.  They 
figure  man  isn’t  dangerous,  if  in  fact  they’ve 
ever  seen  a man.  The  Neanderthalers  that 
are  living  somewhere  in  this  country  right 
now  are  no  match  for  a brute  like  that.” 

Yancey  wiped  his  brow  again.  “This  is 
the  strangest  place  I ever  saw,”  he  declared. 
“Jack  and  me  just  step  out  for  a smoke  and 
a look-around.  We  aren’t  gone  five  minutes 
and  a bear  jumps  us." 

Cameron  guffawed.  “Picked  you  out  for 
breakfast,”  he  said. 

Yancey  grimaced,  but  made  no  reply. 

Suddenly  Cabot  hunched  forward,  finger 
pointing  to  a patch  of  tall  grass  beyond  the 
dead  bear. 

“There’s  something  in  there!”  he  whis- 
pered harshly. 

A tawny  shape  raced  from  the  grass,  land- 
ed on  top  of  the  bear’s  brown  body.  With 
glinting  claws  and  powerful  teeth  it  laid  back 
the  hide  on  the  great  shoulder.  Then,  see- 
ing the  men,  it  backed  away,  its  face  twisted 
into  a blood  stained  snarl. 


93 

Yancey’s  .45  leaped  out  of  its  holster  and 
exploded  almost  as  it  cleared.  One  explosion 
blending  with  another,  the  gun  set  up  a roll 
of  thunder  that  beat  against  the  ears  of  the 
four  men. 

Still  snarling,  the  tawny  beast  jerked  to 
the  impact  of  the  heavy  slugs.  Then  it 
sprawled  and  tumbled  as  Yancey’s  gun 
clicked  on  an  empty  cartridge. 

But  it  was  not  dead.  Snarling  and  spitting, 
it  regained  its  feet,  slunk  low  in  a deadly 
slouch,  razor-sharp,  foot-long  fangs  bared 
in  a murderous  sneer. 

Cabot  whipped  out  his  revolver  as  Yancey 
rapidly  clicked  new  cartridges  into  the  cylin- 
der. Cameron  snapped  the  elephant  gun  to 
his  shoulder.  The  rifle  bellowed  and  the  cat 
rolled  over.  Cabot  slid  his  gun  back  into  the 
holster. 

“Saber-tooth,”  said  Pascal  coolly. 

“He  sure  carries  lead,”  Yancey  com- 
mented, breathing  hard. 

Cameron  cradled  the  rifle  in  his  arm  and 
stared  at  the  two  animals.  “Hunting?”  he 
said.  “This  isn’t  hunting.  This  is  an  eternal 
Custer’s  last  stand — a continuous  battle  in 
self-defense.” 

“Those  critters  sure  are  blood-thirsty,” 
agreed  Yancey. 

“And,”  he  added,  “not  afraid  of  us.” 

Cameron  blew  smoke  through  the  gun  bar- 
rel. “Wonder  how  cave  bear  steaks  taste,” 
he  mused. 

Yancey  looked  the  huge  animal  over. 

“Probably  tougher  than  the  devil,”  he  said 
appraisingly. 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Centaurians 


FROM  the  office  of  Time  Travel,  Inc., 
on  the  600th  story  of  the  Berkley  strato- 
sphere building,  New  York  lay  stretched  be- 
low, a fairy  city.  Under  the  soft  glow  of  mil- 
lions of  lights  it  took  on  an  unearthly  beauty. 
It  was  a city  of  slender  pinnacles  of  pure 
white  beauty,  looping  arches  of  rainbow  hues, 
formal  gardens  and  parks,  gleaming  towers  of 
argent,  black  domes. 

Steve  Clark  liked  the  view.  He  often  came 
here  at  night  to  sit  and  talk  with  his  friend, 
Andy  Smith,  one  of  the  ace  pilots  of  the  Time 
Travel  service. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


94 

Smith  was  reading  the  last  edition  of  the 
Daily  Rocket.  Steve  Clark  had  brought  it  in 
only  a moment  before,  fresh  from  the  press 
and  thrown  it  on  the  desk.  Smith  had  it 
spread  in  the  white  circle  thrown  by  the  lone 
light.  The  rest  of  the  office  was  in  darkness. 
Beyond  the  desk  lockers,  other  desks  and 
record  files  loomed  darkly.  The  time- 
machines  themselves  were  in  an  adjoining 
room,  ready  for  launching  from  the  face  of 
the  building. 

“How’s  business?”  asked  Clark,  with  his 
feet  fixed  firmly  on  the  top  of  the  desk. 

Andy  Smith  grunted. 

“Not  so  good.  It’s  the  Fifty-Sixth  Cen- 
tury, time-travel  isn’t  a novelty  any  more 
and  our  rates  are  too  high.  Didn’t  have  more 
than  a dozen  or  two  trips  all  week.”  He 
jabbed  his  fingers  at  the  purple  headlines. 
“Times  seem  to  be  all  right  for  you  news- 
paper fellows,”  he  said.  “Lots  of  big  news 
this  afternoon.” 

“Yeah,”  Steve  Qark  agreed.  “The  Cen- 
taurians  again.  They’re  always  good  for  a 
banner-line  any  day.  Made  a real  haul  this 
time.” 

“I  should  say  so,”  Smith  said.  “Martian 
bongo  stones,  eh?  Fourteen  of  them.  Larg- 
est and  most  perfect  collection  in  the  entire 
Solar  System.” 

“That’s  it,”  said  Qark.  “The  old  man  al- 
most busted  a blood  vessel  when  that  story 
came  in  an  hour  ago.  Wanted  to  scoop  the 
city.” 

Clark  chuckled.  “We  did,”  he  said. 

Andy  Smith  folded  the  paper  carefully. 
“Steve,”  he  said,  "what  are  the  Centaurians? 
Nobody  seems  to  know.”  • 

“They’re  super-crooks  for  one  thing,” 
Clark  said.  "And  when  you’ve  said  that, 
you’ve  said  about  all  that  anyone  knows 
about  them  for  sure.  They’ve  laughed  at  the 
best  brains  in  the  police  business  for  the  last 
five  hundred  years.  And  I figure  they’ll  still 
be  laughing  five  hundred  years  from  now  if 
they  live  that  long  and  there’s  no  reason  to 
think  they  won’t.  Unless  they're  keeping  it  a 
secret,  the  flatfeet  don’t  even  know  where 
their  hideout  is  located.  They’ve  made  mon- 
keys out  of  everyone.  Didn’t  they  steal  a gold 
shipment  out  from  under  the  nose  of  the 
Interplanetary  Police,  and  keep  it,  too,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  every  IP  man  in  the  System 
was  turned  loose  on  the  case?” 

“You  figure  then,”  asked  Smith,  “that  the 
Centaurians  are  real?  That  they  are  some- 
thing that  isn’t  human.  A super-gang  of  un- 


earthly bandits? 

“You  know,”  Clark  replied,  "a  newspaper- 
man doesn’t  take  to  fables  very  easy.  He 
breaks  more  myths  than  any  other  kind  of 
critter  I know.  But  as  a newspaper  man. 
I’m  telling  you  that  these  Centaurians  aren’t 
human.  Probably  a lot  of  jobs  have  been 
blamed  on  them  that  they  never  had  a thing 
to  do  with.  But  there  are  cases  on  record  of 
eye-witnesses  who  saw  them.  Only  two  or 
three  such  instances  in  the  last  five  hundred 
years,  but  they  check  up  well. 

“All  agree  on  vital  points.  They  got  tails 
and  they’re  covered  with  scales  and  instead 
of  feet  they  have  hoofs.  Whatever  they  are, 
they  don’t  go  in  for  penny-ante  stuff.  When 
they  make  a haul,  it’s  one  that’s  worthwhile. 
Those  bongo  stones.  They  were  worth  ten 
billion  if  they  were  worth  a dime.  And  the 
shipload  of  IP  gold.” 

MITH  whistled.  “Then  you  figure  they 
came  from  Alpha  Centauri?”  he  asked. 

“Either  Alpha  Centauri  or  some  other 
place  outside  the  System.  Nothing  like  them 
been  found  on  any  of  the  planets  here.  I 
always  sort  of  figured  they  were  fugitives 
from  their  own  System.  Maybe  things  got 
too  hot  for  them,  wherever  they  were,  and 
they  had  to  take  it  on  the  lam.  Whatever 
they  are  or  wherever  they  come  from  they 
sure  have  easy  pickings  here.  They  walk 
off  with  just  about  whatever  they  want  to 
and  nobody’s  ever  come  close  to  catching  up 
with  them.” 

“I  read  some  place,  long  time  ago,  that  it 
is  believed  they  came  to  Earth  in  some  sort 
of  a crazy  space  ship.  Wrecked  when  it 
struck.  The  ship  was  smashed  up  and  two 
or  three  of  its  occupants  were  killed — but  I 
guess  they  never  did  find  out  much  about 
them  from  that.  The  ship  was  all  in  pieces 
and  the  things  in  it  were  crushed  to  pulp. 
Maybe  it  was  something  or  somebody  else, , 
not  the  Centaurians  at  all.” 

Steve  Clark  lighted  a Venus- weed  cigar 
and  puffed. 

“Whatever  they  are,”  he  said,  "they  make 
good  news  copy." 

Smith  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I’ll  be  off  in 
a few  minutes,”  he  said.  “What  say  we  hop 
over  to  Paris  and  buy  us  a round  of  drinks?” 

“Sounds  all  right,”  agreed  Clark. 

Smith  rose  from  his  chair,  stuffing  the 
paper  into  his  pocket.  And  standing  there, 
beside  the  desk,  he  froze  in  astonishment 

The  office  door  was  open  and  inside  it 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


stood  a group  of  black-shrouded  figures  that 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  darkness.  Some- 
thing gleamed  in  the  light  reflected  from  the 
polished  table-top. 

A voice  spoke  out  of  the  darkness,  a voice 
that  spoke  the  English  tongue  with  slurred 
accent. 

“You  will  please  resume  your  seat,”  it 
suggested. 

Smith  sat  down  again  and  Clark,  dropping 
his  feet  from  the  desk,  jerked  his  chair 
around. 

“You  also,  sir,”  said  the  voice. 

Clark  obeyed.  There  was  some  metallic 
menace  in  those  short,  clipped,  incredibly  ac- 
cented words  which  held  a definite  note  of 
threat. 

Slowly,  majestically,  one  of  the  black- 
shrouded  figures  strode  forward,  leaving  his 
companions  by  the  door.  He  stopped  before 
the  desk,  still  in  the  darkness,  but  better 
defined  now  in  the  reflections  from  the  desk- 
top. The  man  wore-dark  glasses  and  he  was 
shrouded  in  a dark  cape,  the  edge  of  which 
trailed  to  the  floor,  covering  his  feet.  A 
black  cowl,  a part  of  the  cape,  covered  his 
head  and  draped  over  his  face,  hiding  most 
of  his  features. 

Steve  Clark  felt  the  hair  crawl  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  as  he  studied  the  visitor. 

Smith  made  his  voice  pleasant.  “Anything 
I can  do  for  you  ?”  he  asked. 

“Yes,  there  is,”  said  the  strange  black- 
draped  figure  and  in  the  faint  light  Smith  saw 
the  quick,  smooth  flash  of  white  teeth  in  the 
shadowed  face.  He  couldn’t  make  out  the 
face.  Couldn’t  see  anything,  in  fact,  except 
the  flash  of  teeth  when  he  spoke  and  the  oc- 
casional dull  shine  of  reflected  light  from  the 
man’s  eyes. 

The  teeth  flashed  again.  “I  want  a time- 
condenser,”  he  said. 

Andy  Smith  managed  to  choke  back  a gasp 
of  astonishment,  but  his  face  was  blank  when 
he  answered : 

“We  don’t  sell  parts,”  he  said. 

“No,”  said  the  black-robed  one  and  the 
single  word  sounded  more  like  a challenge 
than  a question. 

“There  is  no  call  for  them,”  Smith  ex- 
plained, “Time-Travel  has  the  only  time- 
machines  in  existence.  They  operate  under 
strict  governmental  supervision.  No  one  else 
owns  a time-machine.  Naturally,  the  only 
ones  who  would  have  use  for  spare  parts 
would  be  our  own  company.” 

“But  you  have  an  extra  condenser?” 


951 

“Several  of  them,”  Smith  admitted.  “We 
have  need  of  replacements  frequently.  It’s 
dangerous  to  go  into  time  with  a faulty  con- 
denser.” 

“I  know  that,”  the  other  replied.  “Con- 
trary to  what  you  may  believe,  there  is  at 
least  one  time  machine  in  existence  other  than 
the  ones  you  own.  I have  one.”  Something' 
like  a chuckle  sounded  from  his  lips, 
“Strangely  enough  I obtained  it  from  yout 
company.  Many  years  ago.  I came  here  to 
get  a condenser,”  said  the  man.  The  ugly 
muzzle  of  some  sort  of  a weapon  poked  from 
the  folds  of  his  cape.  “I  can  take  it  by  force 
if  need  be.  I would  prefer  not  to.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  you  would  cooperate,  I would 
be  willing  to  pay.” 

HE  leaned  closer  to  the  desk.  A hand 
flashed  out  of  the  cape,  was  visible  for 
only  an  instant  and  then  disappeared  inside 
the  cape  again.  But  the  hand  had  tossed  sev- 
eral small  round  objects  on  the  desk-top  ob- 
jects that  seemed  to  spin  in  a blaze  of  color 
under  the  lamp-light. 

“Bongo  stones,”  said  the  white  teeth.  “Not 
the  ones  stolen  this  afternoon.  No  way  to 
identify  them.  But  bongo  stones.  Worth  a 
fortune.” 

Steve  Clark  stared  at  the  stones,  his  mind 
spinning. 

Bongo  stones!  He  counted  them.  Ten  of 
them ! In  a flash  he  knew  who  this  visitor 
was,  knew  that  the  myth  of  the  Centaurians 
was  true.  For  he  had  glimpsed  that  hand 
during  the  swift  instant  it  had  tossed  the 
stones  on  the  desk-top.  A scaly  hand,  like 
the  paw  of  a reptile.  And  the  clicking  of 
the  thing’s  feet  when  it  walked  was  like  the 
sound  of  cloven  hoofs. 

Through  his  buzzing  mind  came  the  voice. 
“And  now  suppose  I take  a condenser  undet 
my  arm  and  walk  out.  Leaving  the  stones 
behind.” 

Smith  hesitated. 

The  muzzle  of  the  weapon  gestured  im- 
periously, impatiently. 

“Otherwise,”  said  the  cold  voice,  “I  shall 
kill  you,  and  take  the  condenser  in  any 
event.” 

Smith  rose  and  walked  mechanically  to  a 
locker.  Steve  Clark  heard  the  rasp  of  a key 
as  his  friend  opened  the  door  to  take  out  a 
condenser. 

But  he  still  stared  at'  the  bongo  stones. 
Now  he  knew  why  the  police  had  never 
found  the  Centaurians’  hiding  place.  They 


96  STARTLING  STORIES 


had  no  hiding  place!  They  were  bandits  in 
time ! They  had  the  whole  scope  of  space  and 
time  for  their  operations!  They  could  sack 
the  Queen  of  Sheba’s  mines  one  day  and  the 
next  day  move  on  to  snatch  treasures  out  of 
the  remote  future,  treasures  yet  undreamed 
of! 

“Clever,”  he  said.  “Clever!”  Andy  Smith 
was  standing  beside  him  looking  at  the  stones. 
They  were  alone  in  the  room. 

“You  gave  them  the  condenser?”  Clark 
asked. 

Smith  nodded  dry-lipped.  “There  wasn’t 
anything  else  I could  do,  Steve.” 

Clark  motioned  toward  the  stones.  “What 
about  those,  Andy?” 

“I  was  thinking,”  Smith  said.  “We  could- 
n’t sell  them  here — or  anywhere  else.  They’d 
ask  us  how  we  got  them.  They’d  lock  us  up. 
Probably  before  they  go  through  with  it, 
they’d  prove  we  stole  them  and  send  us  to 
the  Moon-mines.” 

“There’s  a way,”  Clark  suggested.  He 
nodded  toward  the  hangar  where  the  time- 
machines  were  ranged. 

Smith  wet  his  lips.  “I  thought  of  that,”  he 
said.  “After  all  those  fellows  stole  a time- 
machine  from  the  company  once.  Probably 
the  company  never  reported  the  loss.  Afraid 
of  what  the  government  might  do.” 

Silence  hung  like  a breathing  menace  over 
the  room. 

“Those  were  the  Centaurians,  weren’t 
they?”  Andy  Smith  asked. 

Clark  nodded.  Then  waited. 

“The  company  will  throw  me  out  for  this,” 
said  Smith  bitterly.  “After  ten  years  of  work- 
ing with  them.” 

Pounding  feet  sounded  in  the  corridor  out- 
side. 

Clark’s  hand  shot  out  and  scooped  up  the 
stones. 

“Can’t  let  anyone  find  us  with  these  on 
us,”  he  whispered,  huskily.  “Let’s  duck  into 
the  hangar.” 

Swiftly  the  two  leaped  through  the  door- 
way into  the  darkened  room.  Crouched  un- 
der the  wing  of  one  of  the  time-fliers  they 
saw  figures  come  into  the  room  they  had  just 
quitted.  Figures  in  police  uniforms. 

The  police  stood  stock-still  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  staring. 

“What’s  going  on  here?”  shouted  one  of 
them. 

Silence  fell  more  heavily. 

“What  do  you  think  that  fellow  meant, 
telling  us  he  saw  some  funny  looking  birds 


coming  out  of  here?”  one  of  them  asked  the 
other  two. 

“Let’s  look  in  the  hangar,”  one  of  the 
policemen  said.  He  leveled  a flash  and  a 
spear  of  light  cut  the  deep  gloom,  just  miss- 
ing the  two  men  crouched  under  the  wing  of 
the  time-flier. 

Clark  felt  Smith  tugging  at  him.  “We  got 
to  get  out  of  here,”  Smith  said  in  his  ear. 

Clark  nodded  in  the  darkness.  ' And  he 
knew  there  was  only  one  way  to  get  out  of 
there. 

Together  they  tumbled  through  the  door 
of  the  time-flier. 

“Here  we  go,”  said  Smith.  “We’re  crim- 
inals now,  Steve.” 

The  machine  lurched  out  through  the  sud- 
denly opened  lock. 

The  time  mechanism  hummed  and  two 
men,  one  with  ten  bongo  stones  in  his  pocket, 
fled  through  time. 


CHAPTER  III 
Anachronic  Treasure 


RIMLY  old  One-Eye  was  fighting  his 
last  battle.  His  great  stone  ax  lay  out 
of  reach,  its  handle  broken,  swept  from  his 
hand  by  a blow  aimed  at  him  by  the  mighty 
cat.  His  body  was  mauled  and  across  one 
shoulder  was  a deep  wound  from  which  a 
stream  of  crimson  trickled  down  his  hairy 
chest. 

To  flee  was  useless.  One-Eye  knew  that 
he  could  not  out-distance  Saber-Tooth.  There 
was  only  one  thing  to  do — stand  and  fight. 
So  with  shoulders  hunched,  with  his  hands 
ppised  and  ready  for  action,  with  his  one  eye 
gleaming  balefully,  the  Neanderthal  man 
faced  the  cat. 

The  animal  snarled  and  spat,  its  tail  twitch- 
ing, crouched  for  a leap.  Its  long,  curved 
fangs  slashed  angrily  at  the  air. 

One-Eye  had  no  delusions  about  what  was 
going  to  happen.  He  had  killed  many  saber- 
tooths in  his  life.  In  company  with  others  of 
his  kind,  he  had  faced  the  charge  of  the  great 
cave-bear.  He  had  trailed  and  brought  down 
the  mighty  mammoth.  In  his  day  One-Eye 
had  been  a great  hunter,  an  invincible  war- 
rior. But  now  he  had  reached  the  end  of 
life.  A man’s  two  hands  were  no  weapon 
against  the  tooth  and  claw  of  a saber-toothed 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


tiger.  One-Eye  knew  he  was  going  to  be 
killed. 

Dry  brush  crackled  hack  of  the  cat  and  the 
saber-tooth  pivoted  swiftly  at  this  threat  of 
new  danger  from  the  rear.  One- Eye  straight- 
ened and  froze  in  his  tracks. 

Conrad  Yancey,  standing  at  the  edge  of 
the  brush,  slowly  raised  his  rifle. 

“I  reckon  this  has  gone  about  far  enough,” 
he  said.  “A  man’s  got  to  stick  by  his  own 
kind.” 

Startled,  the  great  cat’s  snarls  rose  into  a 
siren  of  hate  and  fear. 

Yancey  lined  the  sights  on  the  ugly  head 
and  squeezed  the  trigger.  The  saber-tooth 
leaped  into  the  air,  screaming  in  rage  and 
terror.  Again  the  rifle  blazed  and  the  cat 
straightened,  reared  on  its  hind  legs,  fell 
backward  to  the  ground,  coughing  great 
streams  of  blood.  Across  the  body  of  the 
beast  One-Eye  and  Yancey  exchanged 
glances. 

“You  put  up  a swell  battle,”  Yancey  told 
the  Neanderthaler.  “I  watched  you  for  quite 
a spell.  Glad  I was  around  to  help.” 

Petrified  by  terror,  One-Eye  stood  stock- 
still, staring.  His  nostrils  twitched  as  he 
sniffed  the  strange  smells  which  had  come 
with  the  stranger  and  his  shining  spear.  The 
spear,  when  it  spoke  in  a voice  of  thunder, 
had  a smell  all  its  own,  i.  smell  that  stung 
One-Eye’s  sensitive  nostrils  and  his  throat 
and  made  him  want  to  cough. 

Yancey  took  a slow,  tentative  step  toward 
the  Neanderthaler.  But  when  the  sub-man 
stirred  as  if  to  flee,  he  stopped  short  and 
stood  almost  breathless. 

Yancey  saw  that  the  Neanderthaler’s  left 
eye  at  some  time  had  been  scooped  out  of  his 
head  by  the  vicious  blow  of  a cruelly  taloned 
paw.  Deep  scratches  and  a tortuous  malfor- 
mation of  the  region  about  the  cheek-bone 
told  a story  of  some  terrible  battle  of  the 
wilderness. 

Short  of  stature  and  slightly  stooping  of 
posture,  the  Neanderthaler  was  a model  of 
awkward  power.  His  head  was  thrust  for- 
ward at  an  angle  between  his  shoulders.  His 
neck  was  thick  as  a tree  boll.  The  long  arms 
hung  almost  to  the  knees  of  the  bowed  legs 
and  the  body  was  completely  covered  with 
hair.  The  heavy  bristle  of  hair  on  his  enor- 
mously projecting  eyebrows  was  snowy  white 
and  throughout  the  heavy  coat  of  hair  which 
covered  the  man  were  other  streaks  and 
sprinklings  of  gray  and  white. 

“An  old  buck,”  said  Yancey,  half  to  him- 


97 

self.  “Slowing  down.  Some  day  he  won’t 
move  fast  enough  and  a cat  will  have  him.” 

CONRAD  YANCEY  took  another  slow 
step  forward  and  this  time  the  Nean- 
derthaler, bristling  with  terror,  wheeled 
about  with  a strange,  strangled  cry  of  fear 
aand  ran,  shuffling  awkwardly,  down  the  hill 
to  plunge  straight  into  a dense  thicket. 

Back  at  the  time-tractor  camp  Yancey  told 
the  story  of  the  battle  between  the  caveman 
and  the  cat,  of  how  he  watched  and  had  fi- 
nally stepped  in  to  save  the  man’s  life. 

But  the  others  had- stories,  too.  Cabot  and 
Cameron,  hunting  together  a few  miles  to  the 
east,  had  been  charged  by  an  angry  mam- 
moth bull,  had  stopped  him  only  after  they 
had  placed  four  well  aimed  heavy-caliber 
bullets  into  him.  Pascal,  remaining  at  the 
tractor,  had  scared  off  a cave  bear  and  re- 
ported that  a pack  of  five  vicious,  slinking 
wolves  had  patrolled  the  camp  throughout 
the  afternoon.  He  had  shot  two  of  them  and 
then  the  rest  had  scattered. 

For  here  was  a land  that  was  teeming  with 
game ; a land  where  the  law  of  claw  and  fang 
ruled  and  was  the  only  law ; where  big  ani- 
mals preyed  on  smaller  animals  and  in  turn 
were  preyed  upon  by  still  bigger  ones.  Here 
was  a land  without  human  habitation,  with 
the  few  Neanderthalers  who  did  live  here 
hiding  in  dark,  dank  caves.  Here  was  a land 
that  had  no  human  tenets,  no  softening  hand 
of  civilization. 

But  here,  in  this  primeval  wilderness  of 
what  later  was  to  become  the  British  Isles, 
was  the  greatest  hunting  ground  Cabot  and 
Yancey  had  ever  seen.  They  shot  in  self-de- 
fense as  often  as  they  shot  to  bring  down 
marked  game.  They  found  that  a cave  bear 
would  carry  more  lead  than  an  elephant,  that 
the  saber-tooth  was  not  so  hard  to  kill  as 
might  be  thought,  that  only  superb  marks- 
manship and  the  heaviest  bullets  would  bring 
the  mammoth  to  his  knees. 

The  flickering  campfire,  lighting  up  the 
gray,  shadowy  bulk  of  the  time-tractor,  was 
the  only  evidence  of  civilized  life  upon  the 
darkening  world  as  a blood-red  moon  climbed 
over  the  eastern  horizon  and  lighted  a land 
that  growled  and  snarled,  shivered  and 
whimpered,  hunted  and  was  hunted. 

Yancey  saw  One-Eye  lurking  on  the  edge 
of  the  camp  when  he  arose  in  the  morning. 
He  had  just  a glimpse  of  the  old  fellow, 
squatting  in  a clump  of  bushes,  looking  over 
the  camp  with  his  one  good  eye.  He  disap- 


STARTLING  STORIES 


98 

peared  so  quickly,  so  soundlessly  that  Yancey 
blinked  and  rubbed  his  eyes,  hardly  believ- 
ing he  had  left. 

In  the  field  that  day  Yancey  and  Cabot 
caught  sight  of  him  several  times,  lurking  in 
their  wake,  spying  upon  them, 

“Maybe,”  Cabot  suggested,  “he  is  trying 
to  get  up  enough  courage  to  thank  you  for 
saving  his  life.” 

Yancey  grunted. 

"I  had  to  do  that,  Jack,”  he  said.  "He 
isn’t  more  than  an  animal,  but  he’s  still  a 
man.  We  got  to  play  along  with  our  own 
kind  in  a place  like  this.  He  was  such  a 
brave  old  cuss.  Standing  there,  ready  to  go 
to  bat  with  that  cat  with  his  bare  hands.” 
Back  at  the  camp,  Pascal  looked  at  it  in 
a scientific  light.  “Just  natural  curiosity,” 
he  said.  “The  first  glimmering  of  intelli- 
gence. Trying  to  figure  things  out.  With 
what  limited  brain  power  he  had  the  old  fel- 
low is  doing  some  heavy  thinking  right  now.” 
“Maybe  he  recognizes  you  as  one  of  bis 
descendants.  Great-grandson  to  the  hun- 
dredth generation,  maybe,”  Cameron  jibed  at 
Yancey. 

"The  Neanderthal  race  is  not  the  ancestor 
of  man,”  Pascal  protested.  "They  died  out 
or  were  killed  off  by  the  Cro-Magnons, 
who’ll  be  moving  in  within  another  ten  or 
twenty  thousand  years.  The  Neanderthal- 
oids  were  just  a sort  of  blind  alley.  An  ex- 
periment that  didn’t  go  quite  right.” 

“Seems  human,  though,”  protested  Yancey. 

ONE-EYE  became  a camp  fixture.  He 
lurked  around  the  tractor,  trailed 
Yancey  when  he  went  afield.  Degree  by  de- 
gree he  became  bolder.  Meat  was  left  where 
he  could  find  it  and  he  carried  it  off  into 
the  brush.  Later  he  didn’t  bother  to  drag 
it  off.  In  plain  view  of  the  hunters  he 
squatted  on  his  haunches,  ripping  and  rend- 
ing it,  snarling  softly,  gulping  great,  bloody 
mouthfuls  of  raw  flesh. 

He  haunted  the  campfire  like  a dog,  ap- 
parently pleased  with  the  easy  living  he  had 
found.  He  came  farther  away  from  the  en- 
circling brush,  squatted  and  jabbered  just 
outside  the  circle  of  firelight,  waiting  for 
the  bits  of  food  tossed  to  him. 

At  last,  seemingly  convinced  he  had  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  these  strange  creatures,  he 
joined  the  campfire  circle,  saw  with  the  men, 
blinking  at  the  campfire,  jabbering  away  ex- 
citedly. 

“Maybe  he  has  a language,”  said  Pascal, 


“but  if  he  has  it’s  very  primitive.  Not  more 
than  a dozen  words  at  most.” 

He  liked  to  have  his  back  scratched,  grunt- 
ing like  a contented  hog.  He  begged  for  cubes 
of  sugar. 

"Makes  a nice  pet,”  Cameron  declared. 

But  Yancey  shook  his  head.  "Something 
more  than  a pet,  Hugh,”  he  said. 

For  between  Yancey  and  the  old  Neander- 
thaler  something  akin  to  comradeship  had  de- 
veloped. It  was  by  Yancey  that  the  old  one- 
eyed  savage  sat  when  he  came  into  the  ring 
of  firelight.  It  was  at  Yancey  that  he  directed 
his  chatter.  During  the  day  he  haunted 
Yancey’s  footsteps  like  a shadow,  at  times 
coming  out  openly  to  join  him,  ambling  along 
with  his  awkward  gait. 

One  night  Yancey  gave  him  a knife,  half 
wondering  if  One-Eye  would  know  what  it 
was.  But  One-Eye  recognized  in  this  won- 
drous piece  of  polished  metal  something  akin 
to  the  fist  ax  that  he  and  his  people  used 
to  flay  the  pelts  from  the  animals  they  killed. 

Turning  the  knife  over  and  over,  One- 
Eye  slobbered  in  delirious  glee.  He  jabbered 
excitedly  at  Yancey,  clawed  at  the  man’s 
shoulder  with  caressing  paw.  Then  he  leaped 
from  his  place  by  the  camp-fire  and  slithered 
away  into  the  darkness.  Not  so  much  as  a 
breaking  twig  heralded  his  plunge  into  the 
night. 

Yancey  rubbed  his  eyes.  "I  wonder  what 
the  damn  old  fool  is  up  to  now  ?”  he  asked. 

“Went  off  to  try  his  new  knife,”  suggested 
Cabot.  “Something  like  that  calls  for  a little 
throat-slitting.” 

Yancey  listened  to  the  moaning  of  a saber- 
tooth in  the  brush  only  a short  distance  away, 
heard  the  bellow  of  a mammoth  down  by  the 
river. 

He  shook  his  head  dolefully.  "I  sure  hope 
he  watches  his  step,”  he  said.  “He’s  slow- 
ing up.  Getting  old.  That  saber-tooth  out 
there  might  get  him.” 

But  in  fifteen  minutes  One-Eye  was  back 
again.  He  waddled  into  the  circle  of  fire- 
light so  silently  that  the  men  did  not  hear 
his  approach. 

Looking  over  his  shoulder,  Yancey  saw 
him  standing  back  of  him.  One-Eye  was 
holding  out  a clenched  fist,  but  within  the 
fist  was  something  that  glinted  in  the  flare 
of  the  campfire. 

Pascal  caught  his  breath.  “He’s  brought 
you  something,”  he  told  Yancey.  “Something 
in  exchange  for  the  knife.  I would  never 
have  believed  it.  The  barter  principle.” 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME  99 


Yancey  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  One- 
Eye  dropped  the  shiny  thing  into  it.  Liv- 
ing flame  lanced  from  it,  striking  Yancey’s 
eyeballs. 

It  was  a stone.  Yancey  rotated  it  slowly 
with  his  fingers  and  saw  that  within  its 
center  dwelt  a heart  of  icy  blue  flame,  while 
from  its  many  facets  swarmed  arcing  col- 
ors of  breath-taking  beauty.  Cabot  was  at 
his  elbow,  staring. 

“What  is  it,  Yancey?”  he  gasped. 

Yancey  almost  sobbed. 

“It’s  a diamond,”  he  said.  "A  diamond 
as  big  as  my  fist !” 

“But  it’s  cut,”  protested  Cabot.  “That’s 
not  a stone  out  of  the  rough.  A master  jeweler 
cut  that  stone !” 

Yancey  nodded.  “Just  what  would  a cut 
diamond  be  doing  in  the  old  Stone  Age  T he 
asked. 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  Broadcast  in  Time 


ONE-EYE  pointed  down  into  the  throat 
of  a cave  and  jabbered  violently  at 
Yancey.  The  hunter  patted  the  hoary  shoul- 
ders and  One-Eye  danced  with  glee. 

"This  must  be  it,”  Yancey  said. 

“I  hope  so,”  said  Cameron.  “It’s  taken 
plenty  of  time  to  make  him  understand  what 
we  wanted.  I still  can’t  understand  how  we 
did  it.” 

Cabot  wagged  his  head.  “I  can’t  understand 
any  of  it,”  he  confessed.  “A  Neanderthaler 
lugging  around  cut  diamonds.  Diamonds  as 
big  as  a man’s  fist.” 

“Well,  let!s  go  down  and  see  for  ourselves,” 
suggested  Yancey. 

One-Eye  led  the  way  down  the  steep,  slip- 
pery mouth  of  the  cave  and  into  a dimly  lit 
cavern,  filled  with  a sort  of  half-light  that 
filtered  in  from  the  mouth  of  the  cave  on  the 
ground  above. 

Cabot  switched  on  a flashlight  and  cried 
out  excitedly. 

In  cascading  piles  upon  the  floor  of  the 
cavern,  stacked  high  against  its  rocky  sides, 
were  piles  of  jewels  that  flashed  and  glittered, 
scintillating  in  the  beams  of  the  torch. 

“This  is  it !”  yelled  Cameron. 

Pascal,  down  on  his  knees  in  front  of  a 
pile  of  jewels,  dipped  his  hands  into  them, 


lifted  a fistful  and  let  them  trickle  back.  They 
filled  the  cavern  with  little  murmurings  as 
they  fell. 

Cabot  swept  the  cave  with  the  light.  They 
saw  piles  of  jewels;  neat  stacks  of  gold  in- 
gots, apparenly  freshly  smelted ; bars  of 
silver-white  iridium ; of  argent  platinum ; 
chests  of  hammered  bronze  and  copper ; buck- 
skin bags  spilling  native  golden  nuggets. 

Yancey  reached  out  a hand  and  leaned 
weakly  against  the  wall. 

“My  gosh,”  he  stammered.  “The  price  of 
empires !” 

“But,”  said  Pascal  slowly,  calmly,  although 
his  face,  as  Cabot’s  torch  suddenly  lighted 
it  was  twisted  in  an  agony  of  disbelief,  "how 
did  this  all  come  here?  This  is  a primitive 
world.  The  art  of  the  goldsmith  and  the 
jewel-cutter  is  unknown  here.” 

Cameron’s  voice  cut  coolly  out  of  the 
darkness. 

"There  must  be  an  explanation.  Some 
reason.  Some  previous  civilization.  A 
treasure  cache  of  that  civilization.” 

“No,”  Pascal  told  him,  “not  that.  Look  at 
those  gold  bars.  New.  Freshly  smelted.  No 
sign  of  age.  And  platinum — that’s  a com- 
paratively recent  discovery.  Iridium  even 
more  recent.” 

Cabot’s  voice  held  an  edge  of  steel  com- 
mand. 

“We  can  argue  about  how  it  got  here 
after  we  have  stowed  it  away,”  he  said.  “Pas- 
cal, you  and  Hugh  go  down,  and  bring  up 
the  tractor.  Yancey  and  I will  start  carry- 
ing this  stuff  up  to  the  surface  right  away.” 

Yancey  toiled  up  the  throat  of  the  cave. 
Reaching  the  surface  he  slid  the  sack  of 
jewels  from  his  shoulder  and  wiped  his 
brow. 

“Tough  work,”  he  told  Cameron. 

Cameron  nodded.  “But  it’s  almost  over 
now,”  he  comforted.  “Just  a few  more  hours 
and  we’ll  have  the  last  of  the  stuff  in  the 
tractor.  Then  we  get  out  of  here. 

Yancey  nodded.  “I  don’t  feel  too  safe,” 
he  admitted.  “Somebody  hid  all  this  junk 
in  the  cave.  How  they  did  it,  I don’t  have 
the  faintest  idea.  But  I have  a queer  feeling 
it  wouldn’t  go  easy  with  us  if  they  caught 
us.” 

Pascal  staggered  out  of  the  cave  and  slid 
a gold  bar  from  his  shoulder.  He  mopped  his 
brow  with  a shirt  sleeve. 

“I’m  going  down  to  the  tractor  and  get 
a drink  of  water  before  I pack  that  a foot 
farther,”  he  announced. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


100 

Yancey  stooped  to  pick  up  his  gunny  sack. 
Pascal’s  scream  echoed. 

THE  hillside  below  the  tractor  before  had 
been  empty  of  everything  except  a few 
scattered  boulders  and  trees.  Now  a machine 
rested  there,  a grotesque  machine  of  black 
metal,  streamlined  with  stubby  wings,  sug- 
gestive of  a plane.  As  Yancey  caught  his 
first  sight  of  it,  it  was  indistinct,  blurred, 
as  if  he  saw  it  through  a shimmering  haze. 
Then  it  became  clear,  sharp-cut. 

Like  a slap  in  the  face  came  the  knowledge 
that  here  was  the  answer  to  those  vague  fears 
he  had  felt.  Here  must  be  the  owners  of 
the  treasure  cache. 

His  hand  slapped  down  to  his  thigh  and 
his  gun  whispered  out  of  its  holster. 

A door  in  the  strange  machine  snapped 
open  and  out  of  it  stepped  a man — but  hardly 
a man.  The  creature  sported  a long  tail, 
and  it  was  covered  with  scales.  Twin  horns, 
three  inches  or  so  in  height,  sprouted  from 
its  forehead.  The  newcomer  carried  some- 
thing that  looked  like  a gun  in  his  hand, 
but  no  gun  such  as  Yancey  had  ever  seen. 
He  saw  the  weapon  tilt  up  toward  him 
and  his  .45  exploded  in  his  fist.  Even  as 
flame  blossomed  from  his  gun,  he  saw  a 
.45  come  up  in  Cameron’s  hand,  in  the  sec- 
ond after  the  blast  of  his  own  gun,  then 
heard  the  deadly  click  of  a cocking  hammer. 

The  first  of  the  scaly  men  was  down.  But 
others  were  tumbling  out  of  the  strange  mech- 
anism. 

Cameron’s  gun  barked  and  once  again 
Yancey  felt  the  comforting  kick  of  the  .45 
against  the  heel  of  his  palm,  hardly  know- 
ing he  had  squeezed  the  trigger. 

From  one  of  the  guns  carried  by  the 
scaly  men  whipped  out  a pencil  of  purple 
flame.  Yancey  felt  its  hot  breath  clip  past 
his  cheek.  Before  the  time-tractor  lay  Pascal, 
stretched  out,  inert,  like  an  empty  sack.  Over 
him  stood  Cabot,  gun  flaming.  Another  one 
of  those  purple  flames  reached  out,  hit  a 
boulder  beside  Yancey.  The  boulder  glowed 
with  sudden  heat,  started  to  chip  and  crack. 

With  mighty  leaps,  Yancy  skidded  down 
the  slope,  landing  in  a crouch  beside  Pascal. 
He  grasped  the  old  scientist  by  the  shoulder 
and  lifted  him.  As  he  straightened  he  glanced 
at  the  strange  machine  in  which  the  scaly 
men  had  come.  Through  the  open  door  he 
could  see  a mass  of  machinery,  with  banks 
of  glowing  tubes. 

Then  the  machinery  erupted  in  a thunder- 


ous explosion.  The  roar  seemed  to  blot  out 
the  world.  For  one  split  second  he  glanced 
up  and  saw  on  Cabot’s  face  a baleful  grin 
of  triumph,  knew  that  he  had  fired  a shot 
which  had  wrecked  the  scaly  men’s  machine. 

The  ground  seemed  to  be  weaving  under 
Yancey’s  feet.  With  superhuman  effort  he 
plodded  toward  the  door  of  the  time-tractor 
dragging  Pascal.  Hands  reached  out  to  help 
him,  hauling  him  inside. 

Slowly  his  brain  cleared.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  floor  of  the  tractor.  Beside  him  lay 
Pascal  and  he  saw  now  that  the  scientist  was 
dead.  His  chest  had  been  burned  away  by 
one  of  the  pencils  of  purple  flame. 

Cabot  swung  down  on  the  door-locking 
mechanism  and  stepped  back  into  the  room. 

“What  are  they,  Jack?”  Yancey  asked, 
his  mind  still  fuzzy. 

Cabot  shook  his  head  wearily. 

“Don’t  you  recognize  them?”  asked  Cam- 
eron. “Horns,  hoofs,  tails.  Today  we’ve 
seen  the  devil  in  person.  Those  are  the  people 
who  gave  rise  to  the  ancient  legend  of  the 
devil.” 

Yancey  got  to  his  feet  and  looked  down 
at  Pascal.  “Feel  bad  about  that,”  he  whis- 
pered. “He  was  a regular  guy.” 

Cameron  nodded,  stiff-lipped.  From  a port 
Cabot  spoke : “Those  devil-men  are  up  to 
something,”  he  announced.  “They’ll  make 
it  hot  for  us  now.” 

He  wheeled  on  Cameron. 

“Can  you  get  us  out  of  here,  Hugh  ?” 

Cameron  considered  the  question. 

“Probably  could,”  he  said,  “but  I would 
rather  not  try  it  right  now.  I think  we’re 
safe  here  for  a little  while.  That  time  brain 
is  a tricky  outfit.  Know  its  principle  and 
given  time  I could  figure  it  out  so  I could 
take  a try  at  it.  If  worse  comes  to  worse 
I’ll  do  it.  Take  a chance.” 

HE  WALKED  to  the  time-brain  appa- 
ratus and  snapped  the  switch.  The 
brain  glowed  with  a weird  green  light. 

“That  must  be  a time-machine  out  there,” 
said  Yancey.  “Another  machine  would  ex- 
plain the  treasure  cache.  I’ll  bet  those  birds 
are  robbing  stuff  through  time  and  bringing 
it  lack  here  to  cache  it.  Clever.” 

“And  they  landed  up  ahead  to  cache  some 
stuff  and  found  some  of  it  missing.  Then 
they  came  back  through  time  to  find  out 
what  was  wrong,”  supplied  Cabot. 

Cameron  smote  his  thigh.  “Listen,”  he 
said.  “If  that’s  right  it  means  time-travel 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


is  well  established  up  ahead  in  the  future. 
We  might  be  able  to  reach  help  there.  Those 
fellows  out  there  must  be  outlaws.  If  so, 
we’d  rate  some  help.” 

“But  how  will  we  reach  the  future?”  de- 
manded Cabot.  “How  will  they  know  we 
need  help?” 

“It’s  just  a chance,”  said  Cameron.  “A 
bare  chance.  If  it  doesn’t  work  I can  always 
try  to  get  us  back  to  the  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury, although  the  chances  are  nine  out  of 
ten  I’ll  kill  all  of  us  trying  it.” 

“But  how?”  persisted  Cabot.. 

“Pascal  said  the  ‘time  force’  or  whatever 
the  brain  generates,  is  similar  to  electricity. 
But  with  differences.  It  is  important  just 
what  those  differences  are.  I don’t  know,  not 
enough  anyhow.  The  time  mechanism  is  run 
by  the  force  generated  by  the  brain,  but  we 
have  regular  electricity  for  the  tractor  op- 
eration.” 

Cameron  pondered. 

“I  wonder,”  he  mused,  "if  the  time  force 
would  be  sufficiently  like  electricity  to  oper- 
ate the  radio  ?” 

"What  difference  would  that  make?” 
snapped  Yancey. 

“Maybe  we  could  broadcast  in  time,”  Cam- 
eron suggested. 

“But  that  brain  generates  very  little 
power,”  protested  Yancey. 

“We  might  not  need  much  power,”  Cam- 
eron told  him.  “It’s  just  a blind  shot  in  the 
dark.  A gamble — ” 

“Sounds  plausible,”  Yancey  asserted. 
“Let’s  take  a long  shot.” 

Cameron  switched  off  the  brain  mechan- 
ism and  with  lengths  of  wire  connected  the 
radio  to  the  mechanism.  Then  he  switched 
the  brain  back  on  again.  The  sending  set 
hummed  with  power. 

“Better  start  gambling,”  said  Cabot. 
"Those  boys  out  there  are  beginning  to 
ray  us.  Playing  that  purple  flame  on  the 
tractor.” 

Cameron’s  voice  boomed  out,  speaking 
into  the  microphone.” 

“SOS  . . . SOS  . . . Party  of  time  travelers 
stranded  in  the  Thames  valley,  near  the 
village  of  Aylesford,  approximately  seventy 
thousand  years  before  the  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury. Attacked  by  beings  resembling  the  devils 
of  mythology.  SOS  . . . SOS  . . . Party 
of  time  travelers  stranded  in  the  Thames 
valley — ” * 

Cameron’s  voice  boomed  on  and  on. 

Yancey  and  Cabot  stared  out  of  the  ports. 


101 

The  devil-men  were  ringed  around  the 
tractor,  playing  the  purple  beams  on  the  ma- 
chine. They  stood  stolidly,  like  statues,  with- 
out a trace  of  emotion  in  their  features. 

The  tractor  was  beginning  to  heat  up.  The 
air  was  becoming  hot  and  the  metal  was 
warm  to  the  touch. 

The  interior  of  the  tractor  suddenly  flashed 
with  a green  burst  of  flame. 

Yancey  and  Cabot  wheeled  about. 

The  brain  mechanism  was  a mass  of  twist- 
ed wreckage. 

"Blew  up,”  said  Cabot.  “Something  in  the 
purple  rays.  This  is  the  end  of  us  now  if 
our  time-casting  didn’t  work.  We  can’t  even 
operate  the  time-mechanism  without  the 
brain.” 

“Look  here !”  cried  Cabot  from  a port. 

Cameron  and  Yancey  rushed  to  his  side. 

Swooping  down  toward  the  tractor  was  a 
black  ship,  an  exact  duplicate  of  the  time 
machine  of  the  devil-men. 

Like  an  avenging  meteor  the  black  craft 
tore  downward.  From  its  nose  flashes  of  green 
fire  stabbed  out  viciously  and  living  lightning 
bolts  crashed  among  the  devil-men. 

Terrified,  the  devil-men  tried  to  scurry 
out  of  reach,  but  the  lightning  bolts  sought 
them  out,  caught  them,  burned  them  into 
cinders. 

“A  ship  out  of  the  future !”  gasped  Yancey. 
“Our  radio  worked !” 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Thrill-Hunters 


ANDY  SMITH  spoke  earnestly. 

“There’s  just  one  thing,”  he  said. 
“We  can’t  go  back  to  the  Fifty-Sixth  Cen- 
tury. Steve  and  I stole  this  time-machine. 
Lucky  for  you  fellows  we  did,  because  ap- 
parently no  one  else  caught  your  radio  mes- 
sage. But  if  we’re  caught  back  there,  it  means 
a life  stretch  on  Mercury  for  us.  Our  ma- 
chine is  the  second  one  ever  stolen.  The 
first  one  is  over  there.” 

He  nodded  toward  the  devil-men’s  ma- 
chine, blasted  on  the  hillside. 

“Well,”  said  Yancey,  “what  are  we  blab- 
bering around  about?  We  have  a machine 
that  will  take  us  through  time  and  space. 
Any  place  we  want  to  go.  There’s  plenty 
of  room  for  all  of  us.  The  ship’s  loaded 


STARTLING  STORIES 


102 

with  treasure.  Do  we  have  to  decide  where 
to  go?  Why  can’t  we  just  shop  around  and 
stop  wherever  things  look  good  to  us  ? Like 
those  Centaurians.  Me,  I don’t  care  whether 
I ever  go  back  to  the  Twentieth  Century. 
I didn’t  leave  anybody  back  there.” 

“Just  an  old  maid  aunt,”  Cabot  spoke  for 
himself.  “And  she  didn’t  approve  of  me.  Fig- 
ured I should  have  settled  down  and  made 
more  money— added  to  the  family  fortune. 
Thought  hunting  was  silly.” 

The  four  of  them  looked  at  Cameron. 
He  grinned.  “I’d  like  to  find  out  something 
about  what  the  next  couple,  three  hundred 
thousand  years  have  done  in  the  way  of 
science,”  he  admitted.  “Maybe  we  could  pick 
up  a few  tricks.  Skim  the  cream  of  the 
world’s  science.  Probably  lots  of  ideas  we 
could  incorporate  in  the  time-flier.” 

“Wish  we  knew  more  about  that  time- 
brain,”  mourned  Smith.  “But  I can’t  under- 
stand it.  The  Fifty-Sixth  hasn’t  anything  like 
it.  Our  machines  are  run  on  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent basis.  Warping  of  world  lines  prin- 
ciple.” 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a moment.  From 
the  river  came  the  roaring  bellow  of  a mam- 
moth bull. 

“Say,”  asked  Yancey,  “has  anyone  seen 
anything  of  One-Eye  ?’’ 

“No,”  said  Cameron.  “He  must  have  hit 
for  high  timber  when  all  the  fireworks  broke 
out.” 

“By  the  way,”  asked  Steve  Clark,  “what 
are  you  going  to  do  with  Pascal’s  body?” 

“Leave  it  here,”  suggested  Yancey,  “In 
the  tractor.  If  we  worked  a million  years 
we  couldn’t  erect  a more  suitable  burial 
site.  Shut  the  door  and  leave  him  there.  With 
his  time  brain.  No  one  else  will  ever  build 
another.  It  was  all  in  Pascal’s  head.  No  notes, 
nothing.  Just  his  brain.  He  told  me  he  meant 
to  write  a book  when  he  got  around  to  it.  We 
can’t  take  the  body  back  to  the  Twentieth 
Century  and  deliver  it  to  the  authorities.  Be- 
cause nobody  would  believe  us.  They’d  throw 
us  in  the  can.” 

“We  might  take  it  back  and  leave  it  some- 
where on  his  premises  for  someone  to  find,” 
Cabot  suggested. 

Yancey  shook  his  head.  “That  would  be 
senseless.  Just  stir  up  a lot  of  fuss.  An  autop- 
sy and  an  inquest  and  Scotland  Yard  half 
nuts  over  a new  mystery.  Pascal  would  rather 
be  left  here.” 

“I’m  inclined  to  agree,”  said  Cameron. 

“That’s  settled  then,”  said  Smith  getting 


to  his  feet.  “What  do  you  say  we  get  started  ? 
We  got  lots  of  places  to  go.” 

Clark  laughed.  “You  know,”  he  said, 
sweeping  a hand  toward  the  wrecked  time- 
flier.  “I  get  a big  kick  out  of  the  way  this 
Centaurian  business  turned  out.  For  five  hun- 
dred years  those  long-tailed  gangsters  just 
toured  all  over,  robbing  everything  that 
looked  like  it  was  worth  taking.  Dragging  it 
back  into  prehistoric  time  and  hiding  it  away. 
And  in  the  end  all  their  work  was  done  so 
that  five  Earthmen  could  use  it  to  finance  a 
life-time  of  time  wandering.” 

Andy  Smith  looked  thoughtful. 

“But,”  he  said,  “the  Centaurians  must  have 
been  robbing  for  some  purpose.  They  must 
have  had  something  in  mind.  They  amassed 
billions  of  dollars  in  treasure.  For  what  rea- 
son? Not  just  for  the  love  of  it,  surely.  Not 
just  to  look  at.  Not  just  for  the  thrill  of  tak- 
ing it.  What  were  they  going  to  do  with  it?” 
“There,”  said  Cameron,  “is  one  question 
that  will  never  be  answered.”  . . . 

OLD  ONE-EYE  squatted  inside  the  time- 
tractor. 

It  was  snowing  outside,  but  the  tractor  pro- 
vided an  excellent  shelter  and  One-Eye  was 
well  wrapped  in  furs  and  skins.  In  one  cor- 
ner of  the  tractor  was  plenty  of  food. 

Wrapped  to  his  ears  in  a great  mastodon 
robe,  One-Eye  nodded  sleepily.  Life  was 
pleasant  for  the  old  Neanderthaler.  Pleasant 
and  easy.  For  the  tribe  which  had  wandered 
into  the  valley  and  found  him  living  in  the 
shining  cave  had  taken  him  for  a god.  As  a 
result  they  brought  him  food  and  furs,  weap- 
ons and  other  offerings,  gifts  to  appease 
his  wrath,  to  court  his  favor.  For  who  could 
doubt  that  anyone  but  a god  would  live  in 
a cave  that  glinted  in  the  sunshine,  a cave 
made  of  hard,  smooth  stone,  beautifully 
shaped,  a cave  that  had  no  draughts  and  was 
secure  against  the  attack  of  any  wild  beast. 

One-Eye,  dozing,  dimly  remembered  the 
day  when,  curiously  and  idly  jiggling  at  the 
door  handle  of  the  tractor,  the  handle  moved 
in  his  hand  and  the  door  had  swung  smoothly 
open. 

Henceforward  the  tractor  had  become  One- 
Eye’s  cave.  In  it  he  had  lived  through  many 
summers  and  many  snows.  In  it  he  would  live 
out  the  rest  of  his  day. 

One-Eye  remembered  the  strange  friends 
who  had  come  to  him  in  this  shining  cave. 
They  had  gone,  long  ago.  And  One-Eye 
missed  them.  Vaguely  he  was  lonesome  for 


THE  LOOT  OF  TIME 


103 


them.  Many  times  he  wished  they  might 
come  back  again. 

The  old  Neanderthaler  drew  in  his  breath 
with  a slobbering  sigh.  Perhaps  some  day 
they  would.  In  the  meantime,  he  kept  a close 
and  jealous  guard  and  maintained  the  proper 
respect  to  the  one  of  them  that  had  stayed  be- 
hind, the  one  whose  bones  lay  neatly  arranged 
in  one  corner  of  the  tractor. 

But  they  had  remembered  One-Eye  before 
they  left  these  other  friends  of  his.  Of  that 
One-Eye  was  sure. 

Had  they  not  left  behind  them,  in  the 
tractor,  for  him  to  find,  the  great  shining 
stone  which  he  had  given  them  so  long  ago 
in  exchange  for  the  shining  knife? 

One-Eye  slobbered  pleasurably  now  as  he 
looked  at  the  stone,  sparkling  and  flashing 


with  hidden  fire  as  it  lay  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  One-Eye  could  not  know  that  the  stone 
had  been  left  in  the  tractor  accidentally,  over- 
looked by  the  20th  and  56th  century  men  be- 
fore they  left  on  their  excursion  into  time. 
Not  knowing  this,  One-Eye  held  close  to  him 
the  thought  that  these  friends  of  his  had  left 
behind  a token — a token  that  some  day,  per- 
haps, they  would  return  and  sit  around  a fire 
with  him  and  give  him  bones  to  gnaw  and 
scratch  his  back  where  it  itched  the  most. 

Outside  the  wind  howled  dismally  and  the 
snow  slanted  down  in  a new  fury.  A blizzard 
raged  over  the  Thames  valley. 

But  One-Eye,  snug  in  his  furs,  comfortable 
in  his  old  age,  a god  to  his  contemporaries, 
played  with  a diamond  the  size  of  a man’s 
fist,  unmindful  of  the  weather. 


tyranny  an 


d ^Jest 


TO  MOST  of  us  science  is  a profession  carried  on  by  cool  detached  men  who  seek  the  facts 
unswayed  by  ideologies  or  religious  prejudice.  Even  questions  of  good  or  evil,  of  freedom 
versus  dictatorship,  are  excluded,  so  we  believe,  from  the  laboratory. 

When  we  hear  that  a scientific  dispute  among  Russian  biologists  over  the  old  problem  of 
heredity  versus  environment  was  liquidated  by  the  intervention  of  the  Russian  Communist  Party, 
we  are  shocked.  We  are  told  that  the  heredity  exponents  were  forced  to  recant  and  then  dis- 
missed from  office  and  all  means  of  livelihood  simply  because  their  theories  did  not  fit  the  "party 
line.” 

This  bit  of  news  from  behind  the  iron  curtain  shows  that  the  spirit  of  free  inquiry  on  which 
science  is  based  cannot  exist  without  political  freedom.  The  same  thing  happened  in  Nazi  Ger- 
many when  the  theory  of  relativity  was  forbidden  because  Einstein's  religion  was  "wrong.”  When 
the  validity  of  scientific  findings  are  judged  by  a man’s  face,  religion  or  politics,  real  science  is 
dead. 

Dr.  Edmund  W.  Sinnott,  president  of  the  - American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Science,  in  connection  with  the  Association’s  centennial  program  during  September,  1948,  minced 
no  words  on  this  vital  theme: 

"Science  is  universal,”  he  declared.  "It  recognizes  no  national  boundaries,  is  limited  by  no 
racial  prejudices,  follows  no  dogma.  Whether  a discovery  in  science  is  made  by  an  Englishman, 
a Russian  or  a Japanese  is  not  important.  All  that  matters  is  the  soundness  of  the  work  itself. 
When  a scientific  paper  is  published  no  one  asks  if  it  were  written  by  a Negro,  a Roman  Catholic, 
a Jew  or  a Seventh  Day  Adventist.  The  paper  is  judged  by  what  it  is,  not  by  who  did  the  re- 
search which  it  reports.  Good  scientific  work  is  being  done  by  Republicans,  Democrats  and  Com- 
munists. In  a perilously  divided  world,  this  free  spirit  can  be  of  greatest  service  to  mankind.” 

— Rex  Sherrie k 


the  magnificent 

failure 

History  calls  Jonathan  Bates 

the  Father  of  Exploration — but  does 


104 


by  reive  Lafayette 


O HISTORY  of  the  men  who  gave 
us  the  stars  could  help  but  begin 
with  that  heroic  and  colorful  figure, 
Jonathan  Bates.  He  has  been  variously 
termed,  in  our  learned  and  ancient  times, 
the  “Father  of  Exploration,”  the  “Giant  of 
Space,”  and  “that  sum  of  all  man’s  courage 
and  daring  (to  quote),  the  magnificent 
Jonathan  Bates.” 

To  gaze  back  from  this  far  distant  time 
upon  the  massive  individual  in  the  very  dawn 
of  space  navigation,  is  to  achieve,  at  best, 
distortion.  Records  have  been  so  perverted 
and  historians  have  been  so  unusually  dull, 
that  practically  nothing  of  Bates  is  known 
today  except  hackneyed  adjectives.  But  in 
the  archives  of  the  Terra  Record  Society, 
unused  and  almost  unknown  data,  preserved 
with  all  the  cunning  of  a Vega  embalmer, 
lies  ready  to  hand  if  one  wishes  to  dare  those 
countless  leagues  of  battered  and  forgotten 
files. 


Sealed  up  by  a now  unlisted  “commission” 
of  a “Federal  Government”  and  marked  top 
secret  (for  reasons  no  one  will  ever  know) 
is  the  complete  and  actual  case  file,  the  news- 
paper clippings,  the  texts  and  even  the  per- 
sonal letters  of  Jonathan  Bates. 

That  such  an  astonishing  mine  exists  and 
has  always  existed  since  that  time  without 
being  used  or  even  ordered,  is  probably 
attributable  to  a five  hundred  year  “pro- 
hibition of  issue  for  use”  on  all  records 
pertaining  to  atomic  research. 

This  veil  was  drawn  down  in  the  mid- 
Twentieth  Century  and  for  reasons  of  state 
or  personalities  or  graft  or  sheer  bureauc- 
racy, much  vital  data  lay  mouldering  while 
men  spent  their  lives  for  lack  of  it.  When 
it  was  at  last  available,  certain  fables  and 
stories  had  become  too  well  established  to 
be  refuted. 

It  may  come  as  blasphemy,  then,  that 
Jonathan  Bates  was,  in  his  own  generation, 


The  second  in  a series  on 
the  Conquest  of  Space 

105 


STARTLING  STORIES 


106 

considered  a very  ordinary  and  even  in- 
significant mortal  whose  only  claim  to 
grandeur  was  a “crazy  hallucination”  that 
space  flight  was  possible.  And  it  is  further 
of  much  interest  to  note  that  Jonathan  Bates 
considered  himself,  at  life’s  end,  a total 
failure. 

Far  from  a giant,  Bates  was  about  five  feet 
three  inches  tall  and  twisted  as  well.  The 
only  giant  thing  about  him  was  his  head, 
and  the  size  of  this  was  exaggerated  by  his 
bushy  black  hair  which  was  difficult  for  him 
to  control.  His  eyes  had  the  hot  glare  of  the 
fanatic  and  as  he  lurched  along  the  street, 
walking  poorly  because  of  a twisted  spine 
and  a lame  foot.  His  glance  would  scorch 
his  tormentors,  the  street  urchins  who  cried 
“Crazy  man,  crazy  man,  fly  to  the  Moon!” 
and  threw  chunks  of  dirt  at  him. 

Jonathan  Bates  was  a rebel  and  a visionary 
and  such  have  very  short  shrift  at  the  hands 
of  mankind,  no  matter  how  desperately  these 
be  needed  in  the  race. 

INJURED  at  birth  in  a vehicle  accident 
(oddly  common  in  those  barbaric  times) 
he  spent  a most  miserable  and  lonely  child- 
hood, parentless  and  penniless,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  his  early  experience  but  to 
inform  him  that  men’s  hands  were  against 
him  and  that  this  race  can  be  bitterly 
calloused. 

An  inauspicious  beginning  for  the  “Father 
of  Exploration,”  it  is  true.  For  here  lay 
the  cruelty  of  it:  there  was  no  one  to  tell 
him,  toiling  and  struggling  toward  his  goal, 
that  he  would  be  remembered  for  hundreds 
of  milleniums  as  a great  benefactor  of  Man- 
kind. 

Mankind  never  deserved  less  or  was  given 
more  by  any  man.  But  he  was  long  dead 
before  they  knew  and  Jonathan  Bates  never 
did  know. 

At  school  he  was  not  considered  bright 
or  other  than  usual.  The  man  who  was  to 
invent  the  fundamentals  of  space  navigation 
failed  three  times  in  arithmetic  and,  to  the 
end  of  his  days  was  cursed  by  strange  per- 
suasions regarding  multiplication  and  addi- 
tion. 

When  they  built  the  statue  of  him  on  Mars 
(building  him  very  straight  and  tall,  of 
visionary  grandeur)  the  plaque  was  supposed 
to  carry  an  exact  facsimile  of  his  original  dis- 
covery document;  but  it  was  thought  best 
to  change  first  the  spelling  and  then  the 
wording,  for  it  would  never  do  for  children 


to  think  that  the  example  of  all  virtue  was 
actually  an  unlettered  man  in  a most  literal 
sense. 

A strong  and  angry  man  was  Jonathan 
Bates.  Too  violent  and  far  too  caustic  for 
his  mentors,  his  education  was  abbreviated 
in  his  second  year  at  the  university  as  “an 
unlikely  student,”  and  he  was  left  to  his 
own  cherished  conceptions  of  the  character 
of  matter  and  the  aspect  of  living 

Handicapped  and  fettered  by  his  physical 
deformity,  never  completely  out  of  pain,  he 
became  a lone  hunter  who  is  a stranger  to 
his  village  hearth. 

He  came,  one  day  in  late  May  before  the 
Century’s  end,  to  the  naval  proving  ground 
of  the  Federal  Government  of  North  Amer- 
ica bearing  under  his  arm  a something 
wrapped  in  a dirty  gunnysack  and  demand- 
ing from  a guard  to  be  admitted  to  the 
presence  of  the  commanding  officer. 

Bristling,  bushy  hair,  hot  eyes  and  twisted 
body  gave  the  sentry  pause.  But  he  said, 
“The  C.O.’s  busy,  sir.” 

“Young  man,”  cried  Jonathan,  “I  have 
not  walked  through  fifteen  miles  of  heavy 
desert  sand  to  be  told  a lie.”  And  he  stood 
so  near,  young  Jonathan  Bates,  that  the 
sentry  fell  back  despite  himself  before  those 
eyes. 

“You  can’t  pass  this  gate!” 

“I’ll  pass  it  legally  or  otherwise.  Tell  your 
commanding  officer  that  I must  see  him  and 
instantly,  on  a matter  of  very  great  im- 
portance to  the  country.” 

The  commanding  officer  was  busy  but  the 
aide,  skilled  in  handling  the  unwanted,  saw 
Bates  in  the  ante  room.  The  aide  was  very 
smooth  and  quite  accomplished  and  who 
knows  but  what  he  might  have  succeeded 
in  changing  history  by  ordering  Bates  away. 

But  Jonathan  had  an  instinct  which  told 
him  that  the  commanding  officer  was  not 
occupied  and  he  brushed  on  through  before 
he  could  be  stopped  and  came  to  a halt, 
leaning  at  a frightening  angle,  before  the 
huge  desk  which  was  the  rampart  and 
cheval-de-frise  of  the  admiral. 

“I  am  Jonathan  Bates,”  he  said,  shaking 
off  the  aide.  “I  have  here,”  and  he  laid  the 
package  on  the  desk,  “a  jet  motor  which 
will  bum  chemical  or  atomic  fuels  and  with 
which  it  will  be  possible  successfully  to 
navigate  space.” 

The  admiral  hastily  got  the  package  off 
his  desk  before  it  could  mar  the  mahogany. 
And  then,  benign,  he  said,  “I  am  afraid  this 


THE  MAGNIFICENT  FAILURE 


will  have  to  be  taken  up  with  the  department. 

I have  no  authority — ” 

“You  are  here  trying  to  make  a motor 
which  will  not  fail  in  space  flight,”  said 
Jonathan.  “I  have  this  motor  in  my  hands.” 
Dramatically  he  opened  the  package  and 
they  were  amused  to  see  what  they  took  to 
be  a collection  of  odds  and  ends  left  over 
from  some  plumbing  job. 

"You  will  have  to  talk  with  my  engi- 
neers,” said  the  admiral,  anxious  about  the 
grease  getting  on  the  rug.  “Rutherford,  see 
that  this  young  man  gets  to  talk  with  an 
engineer.” 

With  that  Jonathan  had  to  content  himself 
and  he  lurched  after  the  aide  into  the  cellar 
full  of  drawing  tables.  This  cellar  served  as 
a drafting  room  for  the  proving  grounds. 

WHAT  Jonathan  said  to  the  disinter- 
ested engineers  is  of  no  importance. 
With  increasing  exasperation  he  told  them 
he  wanted  them  to  build  the  full  scale  motor 
of  his  small  model  and  he  considered  that 
it  would  be  worth  their  while  since  he 
wanted  nothing  for  his  plans. 

Tolerantly,  they  heard  him  out  and  took 
some  notes  which  they  later  destroyed  and 
were,  in  short,  extremely  unsatisfactory. 

“Too  imaginary,  too  visionary,”  said  one 
of  the  engineers.  “But  I will  consider  it  and 
write  you  a letter.” 

That  was  as  far  as  Bates  could  get.  He 
said  nothing  of  two  years’  work  all  night 
and  every  night  on  this  model,  he  said  noth- 
ing of  hitch-hiking  half  across  the  continent. 
He  raised  his  proud  head  and  trusted  they 
would  all  dine  with  the  Devil  soon.  He 
turned  and  lurched  into  an  old  man  who 
had  followed  him  down  from  the  C.O.’s 
office. 

The  ancient  one  steadied  Bates  and  offered 
an  arm  which  was  resentfully  refused.  But 
the  man  followed  to  the  gate.  There,  Jonathan 
looked  squarely  at  him,  saw  a soft,  wistful 
face,  delicate  hands  and  clothing,  plain  but 
expensive.  Riches  were  part  of  the  phobias 
of  Bates  and  he  would  have  gone  with  no 
good-by  if  the  old  man  had  not  spoken. 

“Sir,”  he  said,  “would  it  cost  very  much 
to  build  this  motor?” 

"Twenty  thousand  dollars  more  than  I 
have,  which  is  nothing,”  said  Bates.  And 
he  shook  a massive  fist  at  the  sky  overhead. 
“Won’t  I ever  get  to  you?”  he  cried. 

The  mild  old  man  said  softly,  “I  am 
Lauson  Conner,  of  Detroit  Motors.  It  occurs 


107 

to  me  that  we  spend  more  than  that  on  ad- 
vertising every  ten  days.” 

"I  suppose  you  do,”  said  Jonathan  bitterly, 
“and  I’ve  seen  a millionaire’s  yacht,  the  cost 
of  which  would  have  given  man  the  entire 
Solar  System.  But  what  has  this  to  do  with 
me?” 

“It  occurs  to  me,”  said  Conner,  just  a 
hint  of  slyness  in  his  eyes,  “that  our  motor 
company  might  be  willing  to  finance  you.” 
Jonathan  was  raised  in  a rugged  school. 
“Why?” 

“Well,  perhaps — Tell  me.  Why  do  you 
want  to  go  into  outer  space?” 

Jonathan  bit  down  on  his  reply  for  he 
knew  better  than  to  expose  his  dreams.  “Of 
what  value  would  this  motor  be  to  you?  I 
would  not  sell  it  for  unscrupulous  use.” 
Lauson  Conner  smiled  quietly.  "Why, 
we’ve  a company  motto,  ‘A  Motor  for  Every- 
thing’ and  we’ve  not  yet  built  a space  motor. 

I am  the  advertising  executive  and  I think 
that  I may  be  able  to  provide  you  with  the 
funds.  You  see,  I came  here  today  to  get 
permission  to  use  the  Navy  intallation  of  our 
equipment  in  a full  page  ad  and — well,  I 
failed  because  of  security.  Recently  our 
company  was  scolded  by  the  Government 
for  being  anti-trust.  It  could  use  some 
favorable  publicity  as  a Benefactor  of  Man- 
kind. If  you  are  not  unwilling  to  be  talked  , 
about  in  the  prints,  I think  I can  place  an 
excellent  laboratory  and  our  finest  tech- 
nicians at  your  service.” 

Jonathan  followed  him  but  poorly  until 
his  final  statement.  He  threw  it  all  into  the 
winds  of  chance  and  extended  his  hand. 

They  shook  and  climbed  into  Lauson 
Conner’s  car. 

No  more  ill-starred  approach  to  space 
travel  could  have  been  conceived.  For,  as 
summer  began,  Jonathan  Bates  had  already 
learned  that  advertising  men  were  some- 
times as  prone  to  exaggeration  in  ad- 
vertising. 

In  a sweltering  hot  outhouse  at  the  ex- 
treme rear  of  the  Detroit  Motors  grounds, 
there  was  set  up  a photographic  laboratory 
in  the  best  motion  picture,  horror  story 
tradition,  complete  with  electrodes.  And 
when  the  pictures  were  taken  and  Jonathan 
Bates  could  remove  his  white  coat  for  real 
work,  the  carpenters  and  electricians  came 
and  took  the  equipment  away. 

Jonathan  stormed  and  bullied  but  mild 
Lauson  Conner  had  fine  answers  for  every- 
thing and  took  no  action  whatever.  Wasn’t 


STARTLING  STORIES 


108 

Bates  on  the  payroll  at  $500  a month  ? Didn’t 
he  have  a workshop?  What  need  was  there 
for  all  sorts  of  equipment  ? And  besides,  why 
should  Jonathan  be  so  wild  about  it?  There 
were  plenty  of  men  who  would  be  glad  to 
draw  their  pay  and  do  no  work. 

“But  confound  it!”  cried  Jonathan,  bang- 
ing the  desk  until  the  inkwell  geysered,  “I 
tell  you  I’ve  got  to  get  to  the  Moon  and 
Mars !” 

This  interested  Conner.  “Mars?  Ah!” 
And  he  scribbled  for  a while  and  called  in 
one  of  the  nine  vice-presidents  he  com- 
manded to  give  him  orders  pertaining  to  a 
new  display  in  a national  weekly. 

“And  see  to  it,”  he  added,  “that  they  give 
us  staff  coverage  on  this  as  well.  Mr.  Bates, 
we’ll  need  a few  more  photographs.” 

THROUGHOUT  July  Jonathan  moped 
about  the  outhouse,  turning  over  dis- 
carded engine  parts  with  his  toe,  doing 
nothing  but  mourn.  And  then  the  first 
articles  appeared. 

Detroit  Motors,  who  could  make  anything, 
were  altruistically  engaged  in  creating  a 
rocket  engine — in  their  own  laboratories, 
under  the  direction  of  Dr.  Jonathan  Bates 
the  eminent  physicist  and  mechanical 
engineer. 

Jonathan  stormed  at  this  misrepresenta- 
tion. But  he  was  too  busy  answering  the 
phone  and  replying  to  letters  to  give  Detroit 
Motors  the  full  broadside  of  his  mind. 

Strangely,  the  Government  did  not  object. 
In  fact  nobody  objected.  And  the  news  story 
was  built  up  and  passed  around  and  lost 
nothing  in  the  reprinting  across  the  land. 
It  came  to  a final  fact  that  any  day  now,  Dr. 
Jonathan  Bates  would  take  off  in  a “rocket 
engine”  for  Mars.  People  began  to  stand 
outside  the  wire  fence  of  Detroit  Motors  and 
stare  hopefully  at  every  motion  within,  ex- 
plaining one  to  another  that  it  was  this  or 
that  function  of  the  “rocket  engine.” 

A millionaire  in  Oklahoma  offered  a $50,- 
000  prize  for  the  first  man  to  fly  to  Mars. 
A missionary  society  sent  a thousand  pounds 
of  leaflets  to  be  distributed  amongst  the 
heathen  there.  In  the  stores  women’s  hats 
were  displayed  as  “Martian”  and  it  went 
into  the  language  as  a shade  of  red.  And, 
as  the  Detroit  Motors  publicity  campaign 
really  began  to  roll,  the  staid  post  office  de- 
partment of  the  Federal  Government  began 
to  accept  “covers”  for  philatelists  to  the 
number  of  thousands. 


Angry,  violent  Jonathan  Bates  tried  to 
stem  the  stampede.  But  it  was  getting  De- 
troit Motors  on  every  tongue  and  people 
were  learning  that  it  should  be  coupled  with 
“Benefactor  to  Humanity”  and  “forward 
advance  of  civilization”  and  the  Supreme 
Court  was  soon  to  review  the  anti-trust 
charges  in  which  the  firm  was  involved. 
Stop  the  publicity ? Never!  And  Bates  cried 
out  in  vain. 

The  only  thing  which  gave  him  hope  was 
the  infrequent  use  of  his  own  name.  It  was 
all  “Detroit  Motors”  and  “Detroit  Scien- 
tists” and  almost  never  “Jonathan  Bates.” 

He  sat  one  day  in  his  hut  examining  the 
strewn  magazines  and  papers  which  publicity 
had  sent  down.  There  were  paintings  of 
Mars  and  fanciful  suppositions  about  Mars 
and  a rehash  of  everything  that  people  had 
thought  about  Mars  and  a dozen  learned  men 
stating  various  contradictory  things  about 
Mars  and  through  it  all  ran  Detroit  Motors, 
Detroit  Motors,  Detroit  Motors.  And  then 
he  found  a statement  by  some  learned  gentle- 
man to  the  effect  that  space  flight  was  impos- 
sible. This  angered  Jonathan.  And  in  an- 
other he  was  astonished  to  see  a whole 
college  of  professors  saying  that  life  could 
not  possibly  exist  on  Mars.  This  exploded 
him.  He  leaped  up  to  rush  to  Conner’s 
office. 

His  chair  overturned  and  tripped  him  and 
he  went  down  into  a heap  of  agony  on  the 
littered  floor.  A little  later  something  moist 
and  warm  woke  him  and  he  looked  up  to 
find  a very  small  yellow  dog  of  no  known 
descent  standing  on  his  chest  and  licking  his 
face.  The  owner  of  this  animal  proved  to  be 
a boy  of  ten  with  freckles  across  his  nose  and 
an  old  baseball  cap  on  his  head. 

“Tiger!”  said  the  boy.  “You  come  here!” 

The  untigerish  beast  got  off  and  Jonathan 
rose.  His  leg  hurt  and  his  temper  was  bad. 
The  small  boy  backed  a step  and  then  stood 
his  ground. 

Running  it  altogether,  the  boy  said,  “My 
name  is  Dicky  Collins  and  you’re  Dr.  Bates 
and  I read  all  about  it  and  I come  under 
the  fence  to  ask  you  if  me  and  Tiger  could 
be  volunteers  in  your  crew  and  I don’t  take 
up  much  room  and  Tiger  would  help  us 
fight  wild  beasts  if  there  were  any  and  I 
could  wash  dishes  or  anything  if  you’d  let 
me  please  mister,  gosh ! but  I want  to  go  to 
Mars!” 

Jonathan’s  scowl  darkened  and  all  the  per- 
plexities of  these  last  weeks  flooded  in.  The 


THE  MAGNIFICENT  FAILURE 


small  boy  in  the  baseball  cap  was  still  stand- 
ing there.  Jonathan’s  eyes  softened.  “So 
would  I,  Dicky.”  He  put  out  his  hand  to 
acknowledge  that  they  were  introduced. 

“Shake,  Tiger,”  said  Dicky.  And  Tiger’s 
paw  had  to  be  shaken. 

“Where  do  you  live?  said  Jonathan. 

“In  the  county  home.”  His  face  was  care- 
fully calm.  .“My  folks  left  me.” 

Jonathan  pressed  that  no  further.  Hastily 
he  said,  “Hand  me  my  cigarettes,  would  you, 
Dicky?”  He  lighted  one. 

“Well?”  said  Dicky. 

Jonathan  smiled  indulgently.  “Dicky,  this 
would  be  dangerous  business  even  if  it  could 
be  done,  I am  afraid.” 

SLOWLY  the  boy  about-faced  and 
walked  out,  very  straight  and  firm  ex- 
cept that  the  tears  blinded  him  and  he  could 
not  check  them.  He  got  out  of  Jonathan’s 
range  of  vision  and  then  stumbled  against 
the  fence  and  clung  there,  sobbing. 

Jonathan  came  swiftly  to  his  side  and 
picked  him  gently  up  and  brought  him  into 
the  hut  again.  Clumsily  he  sought  to  dry 
the  boy’s  tears. 

“I’m  sorry,”  sobbed  Dicky.  “But  all  week 
long  I tried  and  tried  and  tried  to  get  courage 
to  come  and  ask  and  I’ve  been  within  five 
feet  of  the  door  nine  times  but  I just  didn’t 
have  the  nerve  and  today  I tried  and  tried 
and  then  you  fell  and  Tiger  went  in  and  I 
was  scared  you  were  hurt  and  I took  my 
nerve  up  and  asked  and  you  said  No!” 

He  went  into  paroxysms  of  weeping  again. 
Through  the  tears  came,  “I  did  so  want  to 
go  to  Mars  and  get  away  from  all  these  peo- 
ple that  all  they  do  is  lick  me  and  maybe 
some  tribe  would  make  me  king  and  I’d, 
never,  never,  never  have  to  come  back  here, 
never!  But,  but  you  said  No!” 

He  went  to  pieces  again,  but  not  quite  so 
bad  and  Jonathan  was  able  to  interest  him  in 
an  orange.  Then  handkerchief  in  one  hand 
to  mop  his  trickling  tears  and  the  huge 
orange  in  the  other  he  sat  there  dejected,  all 
his  dreams  in  fragments  and  life  never  again 
worth  living. 

“Well,  now!”  said  Jonathan  unsteadily. 
“Well,  now!”  And  he  could  not  get  beyond 
that  for  before  his  gaze  was  marching  his 
own  young  self,  feeding  on  dreams,  planning, 
searching,  thinking,  hoping  and  hoping  again 
that  someday  he  could  get  away  to  a place  so 
far  that  no  one  would  ever  trouble  him  again. 
He  cleared  his  throat  and  started  toward 


109 

the  door.  Suddenly  he  turned  and  put  out 
his  hand. 

“It’s  a deal,  Dicky.  I don’t  know  how, 
but  it’s  a deal.  And  if  you’ll  excuse  me  I 
have  to  see  a man  named  Conner.  Have  a 
sandwich  while  I’m  gone.” 

Dicky  was  too  rattled  to  notice  how  long 
his  benefactor  was  absent.  He  sat  still  say- 
ing over  and  over,  “Gee!  Gee!”  And 
starting  up  every  moment  or  so  to  shudder 
at  the  thought  of  Jonathan  changing  his 
mind. 

Meanwhile  in  the  office  of  the  president 
of  Detroit  Motors,  Jonathan  was  being  very 
calm,  for  once. 

“That’s  the  way  of  it,  Mr.  Morton.  Mr. 
Conner  here  has  preyed  on  your  credulity. 
He  has  blown  a bubble  which,  when  it 
breaks,  may  well  demolish  your  company. 
People  don’t  expect  a rocket  engine.  They 
expect  a trip  to  Mars.” 

“But  good  Heavens!”  cried  Morton, 
seriously  alarmed.  “I  took  it  for  granted  that 
something  was  being  done,  that  at  least  an 
attempt  would  be  made.  I never  gave  it  a 
thought  until  this  minute ! Conner,  you  fool ! 
your  partnership  here  gave  you  no  right 
to  lead  me  on,  to  lie  to  me!” 

“I  only  told  you — ” began  Conner. 
Morton  cut  him  short.  “It’s  not  what  you 
told  me  but  what  you  told  the  entire  country ! 
Just  yesterday  you  said  you  had  announced  a 
date  to  leave.  You  can’t  fake  that!  The 
expectation.  What  was  the  date?” 

“September  first,”  said  Conner,  cowed. 
“I  thought  it  would  be  an  easy  matter 
to  . . .” 

“That  Supreme  Court  will  not  sit  on  our 
case  until  December  first!  Conner,  you’re 
an  idiot.  This  may  cost  us  into  the  millions !” 
“I  only  want  the  run  of  your  plant  and 
your  technicians,”  said  Jonathan  gently.  “A 
few  thousand  dollars’  worth  of  materials.” 
“Bates,”  said  Morton,  “if  you  can  swing 
this  and  really  get  away  on  a test  run  to  the 
Moon,  I’ll  give  you  the  company  check  for 
half  a million  dollars.  And  as  for  your 
present  project,  you  have  a drawing  account 
of  whatever  you’ll  need.” 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Dicky  ran 
errands  all  day  and  half  the  night  through 
a special  section  of  Detroit  Motors  which 
was  now  exclusively  Jonathan’s.  And 
Jonathan  Bates  watched  drawings  grow  into 
test  models. 

His  “rocket  engine”  was  basically  very 
simple.  For  chemical  fuel  it  might  have  been 


110  STARTLING  STORIES 


built  from  the  technology  of  the  last  two 
centuries.  It  gave  positive  feed  control  in 
any  varying  amounts  and  it  would  run  from 
ten  to  a million  foot  pounds  at  the  thrust  of  a 
hand.  It  had  two  barrels  of  enormous  mass, 
two-foot  orifices  and  eight-foot  diameters, 
with  a liquid  cooling  system  within  each 
barrel,  force  pumped. 

The  liners  could  be  shifted  at  will.  The 
barrels -fired  alternately  and  sucked  in  their 
own  feed  with  the  vacuum  the  explosion  had 
just  left.  The  cooling  lines  wandered  through 
the  ship  in  stich  a way  that  the  side  away 
from  the  sun  would  carry  off  the  heat.  As 
the  cooling  liquid  left  the  barrel  liner  it  ran 
through  a heat  converter  which  made 
auxiliary  power.  The  atomic  barrels  fitted 
within  these. 

THE  atomic  barrels  could  be  drawn  into 
the  ship  for  repairs  and  loading  and 
depended  on  the  fission  of  iron  under  an 
alpha  booster  impact.  The  iron  required 
shock  treatment  before  being  used  as  fuel, 
of  course,  and  this  was  done  by  supercharg- 
ing the  metal  nearly  to  the  point  of  instability 
with  Cannister  particles.  The  additional 
shock  of  the  booster  would  begin  an  elemen- 
tary chain  reaction  which  could  only  be 
stopped  by  the  exhaustion  of  fuel. 

Chain  reaction  recharged  the  boosters, 
leaving  the  atomic  chamber  empty.  The 
boosters  shifted  magnetism  which  opened  a 
port  and  permitted  a granule  of  fuel  to  fall 
into  the  chamber.  The  port  in  closing  trig- 
gered the  booster  reservoir.  The  impact  on 
the  iron  exploded  it,  which  force  blasted  out 
and  so  drove  the  ship. 

The  innocent  character  of  the  resulting 
rays,  the  resistance  of  the  liners,  and  the 
ability  to  regulate  the  fall  of  fuel  granules 
from  within  the  ship  by  simple  mechanical 
means  made  this  motor  unique  in  its  time 
for  reliability  and  it  was  running,  despite  its 
unwieldy  character  for  some  two  hundred 
years  in  all  uses  and  could  have  been  found 
on  old  tramps  five  hundred  years  after  that 
date. 

The  only  thing  which  gave  trouble  in  the 
beginning  solved  itself.  The  atomic  fuel  at 
low  speeds — slow  explosions — tended  to 
vibrate  the  ship  badly.  Only  above  a thou- 
sand miles  per  hour  could  a pilot  work  the 
ship  in  comfort.  Jonathan  Bates  tried  three 
fuels  and  one  of  these,  zinc,  was  accidentally 
but  half  charged.  It  gave  a slow,  powerful 
thrust  even  though  it  wasted  half  its  mass. 


Starting  magazines,  then,  were  loaded  with 
half-charged  zinc.  Running  fuel  was  fully 
charged  iron.  Chemical  auxiliary  fuel,  con- 
sisting of  ordinary  liquified  oxygen  and  fuel 
oil,  ran  the  odds  and  ends  of  equipment  in 
the  ship  itself,  provided  emergency  air  supply 
and  permitted  booster  take-off. 

Under  Jonathan’s  feverish  eyes,  the  ship 
grew  and  prospered.  But  at  best  it  was  very 
crude  for  everything  about  it  was  guesswork. 
At  this  time,  so  far  as  anyone  knew,  no  man 
had  dared  space  and  not  one  solitary  fact 
about  space  voyaging  could  be  advanced  with 
confidence.  But  Jonathan’s  peculiar  genius 
and  magnificent  courage  persevered  past  all 
doubts  and  obstructions  until  he  could  say 
at  last  the  thing  was  done. 

It  was  on  the  First  of  September  that  he 
tried  the  motors  with  the  ship  entirely  built 
but  unfitted.  And  despite  Morton’s  cries 
that  he  must  be  on  his  way,  Jonathan  knew 
he  had  to  develop  a better  liner  for  the 
chambers. 

By  the  third  of  October  he  was  again 
ready  for  a test.  The  tube  joinings  and  the 
hull  braces  vibrated  themselves  to  ruin  in 
five  hours  and  twenty  minutes  running. 

Jonathan  gave  no  heed  to  importunings 
around  him.  He  built  and  tested  nine  sets  of 
fittings  before  he  consented  to  trust  the  ship 
with  one.  This  time  he  ran  the  motor  for 
thirty  hours,  the  ellipsoid  craft  shuddering 
against  her  huge  cables  and  balances,  the 
brick  wall  behind  the  nozzles  growing  thin 
from  erosion  of  impact. 

This  was  well  but  when  she  was  hung  in 
a cradle  of  giant  size  for  the  testing  of  her 
steering  jets,  it  was  so  obvious  that  they 
would  overcontrol  that  Jonathan,  from 
raising  power  up  to  incredible  heights,  had 
to  scale  a new  motor  down  to  model  size  for 
the  purpose  of  turning  the  vessel  easily  and 
stopping  her  when  she  arrived  on  course. 

It  took  him  a long  time.  He  was  ready  on 
February  first  for  the  maiden  voyage  of  the 
Detroit  Motors  Meteor.  And  even  then  he 
was  not  sure  that  it  would  fly.  But  he  had 
stalled  long  enough,  Morton  said.  Interest 
was  cooling.  People  had  begun  to  whisper 
that  maybe  it  was  a hoax  and  publicity  stunt. 
And  besides,  the  hearings  still  went  on  in  the 
Supreme  Court  and  the  deed  must  be  done 
before  a decision  was  handed  down. 

Against  his  judgment  and  before  a crowd 
he  could  have  done  without,  at  four-thirty 
P.M.  on  the  first  of  February,  Jonathan 
Bates  waved  to  Dicky  on  the  sidelines, 


THE  MAGNIFICENT  FAILURE 


scowled  at  the  crowd  and  withdrew  from  the 
blaze  of  flashbulbs  into  the  pilot  compart- 
ment of  the  ship.  Police  cleared  an  enormous 
space  already  marked  out  with  flags  and 
Jonathan  blasted  her  from  the  cradle  with 
a savage  hand.  . . . 

Three  and  a half  days  later  he  stood  at  a 
lonely  cairn  and  read  the  penciled  note  on 
the  torn  cheese-package  while  Tycho  gaped 
beside  him. 

Reverently  he  replaced  the  notice  and 
stood  for  a moment.  He  had  felt  terribly 
alone.  He  had  been  acutely  sure  that  no  one 
was  on  his  side.  And  yet,  there  was  not 
one  space  voyager,  there  were  two. 

He  would  never  meet  Carlyle  for  George 
Carlyle  was  dead  on  a worthless  beach, 
massed  in  a grave  with  hundreds  more,  his 
genius  lost  forever.  But  Jonathan  Bates 
would  not  know  this  for  some  days.  He 
knew  he  was  not  alone.  That  his  own 
strange  band  was  already  two  and  that  it 
would  grow. 

HE  HAD  had  a misfortune  with  his 
oxygen  tanks  the  day  before  and  he 
could  not  spend  the  time  he  wished.  But  he 
was  far  from  short  on  fuel  and  so  he  had 
circumnavigated  the  Moon  after  his  take-off. 

And  here  it  was  that  Bates  should  have 
been  content  to  be  still.  No  man  had  ever 
seen  the  back  side  of  the  Moon.  By  some 
mysteriously  ordained  power,  the  Moon’s 
swing  about  Earth  and  about  its  own  axis 
were  the  same  so  that  in  all  her  days  she 
had  presented  but  one  side. 

The  Moon  was  not  a perfect  sphere ! The 
Earth  side  bulged  plainly  so  that  gravity 
trapped  her  there,  made  her  coordinate  her 
turn  and  face  Earth  always. 

He  stood  off  in  a low  gravity  zone  and 
stared  about  him.  The  Moon  filled  the  whole 
sky  for  him,  filled  for  the  instant  his  whole 
life. 

Jonathan  finally  tore  his  gaze  away  and 
resolutely  checked  his  drifting  ship.  He 
thumped  his  tanks  and  they  rang  nearly 
full.  He  checked  his  fuel  and  could  see  no 
indication  of  the  minute  amount  that  he  had 
burned.  He  looked  at  his  oxygen  and  though 
the  central  reservoir  was  now  empty,  he 
found  the  chemical  auxiliary  entirely  full. 

Suddenly  he  was  shaking  with  excitement. 
Did  he  dare  risk  it?  How  would  he  charge 
that  oxygen  tank  when  he  got  there?  If  he 
did  go,  could  he  manage  to  get  back? 
Through  the  heavy  filters  on  the  ports 


111 

he  stared  about  the  sky  until  he  found  Mars. 
For  it  was  a certain  thing  to  him  that  if 
he  returned  there  would  be  trouble,  or  at 
least  delay.  He  wanted  no  more  of  their 
bickering,  of  the  petty  commercial  grabbing 
which  clung  to  this  ship  even  in  its  name. 

There,  like  a beacon  leading  him  straight 
to  harbor,  glowed  the  orange  eye  of  Mars. 

In  ten  minutes  he  had  reloaded  the 
magazines  and  replaced  the  tubes  in  their 
slots.  In  fifteen  minutes  he  had  plotted  a 
crude  course  which  showed  him  how  near — 
how  terribly  near — he  would  come  to  the 
Sun.  At  five-thirty-eight,  though  A.M.  or 
P.M.  he  did  not  know  for  certain,  he  cut 
in  the  small  gyro  stabilizer,  attached  the 
steering  control  and  headed  out  for  Mars. 

To  us  in  this  far  time,  the  distance  was 
puny,  an  ant’s  journey.  Old  ferry  boats  under 
drunken  mates  do  it  daily  in  every  system 
inhabited  by  man.  But  recall  1 This  was  the 
first  time ! 

How  near  came  the  Sun,  how  greedy  its 
pull  that  veered  the  ship  off  course!  How 
one  listened  to  each  miss  in  the  tubes  and 
held  one’s  breath  to  the  next  slow  ignition. 
One  could  tumble  down  into  the  greatest 
fission  of  all,  the  Sun,  tumble  down  and  be 
charred  long  before  the  quarter  of  a million 
mile  high  corona  licked  him  hungrily  at  last. 

CRAWLING  masses  of  the  Sun’s  sur- 
face, writhing  with  atomic  fire,  took 
distinctive  shape,  and  sunspots  gaped  like 
pits  in  hell  before  the  voyager’s  awed  gaze. 
For  who,  even  now,  can  look  intimately  on 
the  face  of  a mighty,  roaring  star  and  not 
feel  death  in  it? 

Time  after  time  Bates  told  himself  that 
he  had  made  a foolish  plan.  Why  had  he 
come  away  from  Earth  at  a time  when  Mars 
was  there  beyond  the  Sun,  so  nearly  con- 
joined ? For  to  detour  would  be  fatal  without 
oxygen. 

He  was  at  the  “top”  then  of  his  parabola. 
He  could  shut  off  all  fuel  for  many  hours 
and  let  the  Sun  crack  the  whip  with  him  and 
hurl  him  into  Mars. 

He  did  not  know  how  fast  he  was  going. 
Distances  were  too  great  for  him  to  calculate 
accurately  enough,  and  he  had  nothing  like 
a spherical  space  compass  then — though  he 
invented  it  in  his  log  enroute — and  no 
method  of  taking  accurate  azimuths  on  these 
countless  billions  of  stars  he  saw  so  clearly 
all  about  the  inky  sky. 

On  the  twenty-first  day  of  his  voyage  he 


STARTLING  STORIES 


112 

found  Mars  before  him,  huge  and  multi- 
colored, filling  up  a quarter  of  the  sky,  wait- 
ing for  him.  Waiting  with  oxygen?  His 
tank  was  almost  empty. 

He  tried  vainly  to  find  “canals”  for  that 
was  a superstition  of  those  ancient  days  and 
found  instead  vast  polar  caps  extending 
toward  the  planet’s  waist. 

Like  a great  clock  in  the  sky  he  could 
see  it  turn  and  then  he  was  in  close,  no 
longer  “out  in  space”  but  in  the  sky  of  Mars. 

There  were  red-brown  mountains,  smooth 
with  ages.  There  were  river  beds  too  wide 
for  any  river.  Only  in  the  equatorial  belt 
were  things  green  and  only  here  did  he  find 
what  he  thought  would  be  a suitable  plateau 
on  which  to  land. 

He  had  already  braked.  He  held  off  a 
distance  now.  He  could  not  tell  what  was 
below  him  with  any  accuracy  and  he  stared 
at  the  great  polar  caps. 

Suddenly  he  guessed  at  the  riddle  of  Mars. 
She  was  ice-bearded  with  age,  thin-aired, 
chill.  But  she  was  not  dying  and  she  was 
not  dead.  Gravity  drew  him  gently  down 
to  the  chosen  spot  and  he  braked  at  last  and 
settled  upon  the  tripod. 

He  had  no  meter  to  tell  him  if  he  would 
live  outside  the  ship.  He  had  no  canary  to 
test  the  air.  And  he  donned  a stratosphere 
suit  before  he  opened  his  airlock. 

He  needn’t  have  done  so.  The  tree  which 
cast  its  shade  beside  the  ship  could  only  live 
on  air. 

A curious  thing.  He  knew  nothing  about 
trees  but  it  looked  like  one  he  had  seen  on 
Earth.  The  grass  was  thin  and  shaped  into 
a square.  How  strangely  normal  all  this 
struck  him. 

Gingerly  he  undid  a helmet  buckle, 
cautiously  he  lifted  it.  He  breathed  and 
did  not  die. 

It  was  as  though  he  stood  on  some  great 
peak  on  Earth,  such  was  the  air  in  heaviness. 
And  then  he  smelled  the  strong  sweetness 
of  flpwers  and  a winged  something  flashed 
down  on  him  and  yelled  hoarsely.  He 
ducked.  And  then  he  laughed  at  himself. 

He  felt  the  soil,  the  grass,  the  leaves,  and 
he  yelled  aloud  in  joy. 

Water  was  in  a brook  at  hand.  The  birds 
ate  a fruit  and  so  he  tried.  He  refreshed 
himself  and  bathed,  calming  himself  in  this 
momentous  instant  by  doing  quite  ordinary 
things,  making  himself  do  them.  How 
strange  it  was  that  he  felt  so  much  at  home, 
so  little  inclined  to  alarm. 


He  spent  six  days  wandering  and  writing 
notes  and  all  the  wonders  about  him  multi- 
plied again  and  again  until  he  was  seized 
with  impatience  to  see  the  whole  of  it. 

He  had  to  invent  the  means  of  com- 
pressing air  for  his  flasks,  but  he  did  it.  He 
had  to  repair  odds  and  ends  about  his  ship 
with  no  tools  or  torches,  and  he  did  them. 

At  last  he  could  hurl  his  craft  into  the  sky 
again  and  bounce  there  on  one  jet,  looking 
down,  studying,  memorizing  lakes  and  ocean 
beds  and  the  odd  streaks  of  vegetation  which 
created  lines  as  if  in  the  wake  of  some  un- 
imaginably old  cataclysm.  He  moved  back 
and  forth  in  his  study  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  somehow  he  must  find  out  where 
sentient  beings  lived.  Certainly  they  must 
live  here.  They  must  have  cities.  They  had 
to  have  cities ! 

He  could  not  know  all  at  once  he  told 
himself,  and  made  his  sketches  and  pictures. 
And  then  a daring  thought  struck  him. 
It  was  going  to  be  too  dangerous  to  cross 
the  Sun  again— at  least  for  his  nerves.  But 
why  should  he  try? 

Venus  stood  in  a triangle  away  from 
the  Sun.  The  other  two  ends  of  the  triangle 
were  Earth  and  Mars. 

OW  that  he  was  up  he  did  not  care  to 
•InH  land  again.  Horizon  fever  had  taken 
him.  He  looked  back  at  Mars.  He  would  pen- 
etrate her  riddles  some  day.  He  would  find 
her  people  and  ancient  cities.  He  would  come 
back ! 

And  the  Meteor  began  to  jet,  faster  and 
faster,  with  Venus  as  the  goal. 

Considering  the  enormous  number  of 
space  accidents  which  followed  in  the  cen- 
turies after,  it  is  a remarkable  tribute  to 
Jonathan  Bates  that  no  mishap  befell  him, 
either  from  ray  burns  or  stray  flotsam,  often 
so  terrible  and  final  in  those  times.  It  was 
either  luck  or  skill,  combined  with  foresight. 
But  when  Bates  landed  ninety-two  days  from 
departure  time  at  the  Detroit  Motor 
Stadium,  both  Jonathan  and  ship  could  have 
taken  off  again  within  the  day. 

His  pockets  bulged  with  notes,  his  lockers 
were  crammed  with  film  and  samples  of  the 
soil  and  growths  of  Mars  and  Venus.  A 
proud  serenity  was  in  his  smile,  a poise  in 
his  mind  which  would  never  desert  him. 

He  had  gone  away  from  Earth  and  the 
truth  is  that,  as  it  is  with  every  rover,  he 
did  not  again  come  wholly  home. 

They  yelled  and  shouted  and  applauded 


THE  MAGNIFICENT  FAILURE 


and  the  papers  spread  his  name.  Men 
scrambled  to  talk  to  him,  societies  fought 
to  award  him  prizes.  Parades  were  held  and 
bands  played. 

For  nearly  eighty  days. 

It  alarmed  him  a little  when  the  army 
commandeered  his  ship  “for  study.”  But 
he  was  being  showered  with  favors  and  he 
thought  he  could  have  another,  better  ship 
whenever  he  chose  to  build  it.  And  how 
much  better  it  would  be ! 

Gradually  the  hysteria  wore  off.  There 
were  reasons  for  it.  In  the  first  place, 
Jonathan  never  did  consider  himself  a hero 
and  could  not  learn  to  take  applause.  He 
avoided  newsmen  and  refused  to  talk.  He 
ducked  out  of  luncheons  to  be  found  behind 
his  lab  talking  with  a beaming  small  boy  and 
a dog.  He  would  not  do  everything  people 
thought  he  should.  And  reaction  set  in, 
whispers  behind  hands.  He  was  too  good 
for  them  now.  That  they  had  always  been 
“too  good  for  him”  never  entered  their 
minds. 

But  people  were  happy  enough  that  the 
thing  had  been  done,  and  happy  too  to  let 
it  lie.  For  one  after  another  discovered  the 
question — “Well,  what  possible  good  is  it, 
after  all?  We  can’t  ever  go  there.” 

And  so  popularity  and  interest  died  down 
and  left  Jonathan  with  time  to  think  and  be 
glad  that  his  appearance  prevented  him  ever 
from  becoming  a professional  hero. 

Jonathan  found  few  men  ready  to  part 
with  money  for  another  ship,  now.  There 
was  no  commercial  advantage  that  they  could 
see  to  be  gained.  And  besides,  there  were 
no  less  than  twenty-seven  space  ships  build- 
ing in  all  various  parts  of  the  world. 

Jonathan  asked  Morton  of  Detroit  Motors, 
then,  for  the  offered  check  and  Jonathan  was 
not  particularly  amazed  that  Morton  dis- 
tinctly did  not  recall  having  mentioned  it. 
The  Oklahoma  oilman  had  made  his  boast 
too  public  to  back  down,  however,  and 
Jonathan  had  what  the  government  taxes 
left  of  that. 

He  found  that  Detroit  Motors  could  no 
longer  spare  the  room  but  they  gave  him  the 
old  equipment  for  which  they  now  had  no 
use.  He  set  it  up  in  a barn  nobody  wanted 
and  with  little  assistance  from  anyone  except 
that  of  the  small  boy  and  the  dog,  began 
the  Voyager. 

It  took  him  a long,  long  time  for  he  had 
changed  things  so  radically.  But  he  plodded 
away,  an  object  of  occasional  curiosity  from 


113 

passers  by,  but  severely  left  alone  by  the 
newsprints. 

They  did  not  remember  him  until  that 
fatal  morning  of  August  16th  when  the 
Crusader  I,  a patchwork  miscreation  private- 
ly and  badly  built,  took  off  for  Mars,  shat- 
tered her  rockets  and  came  back  down  on 
a crowd  of  twenty-two  thousand  people, 
killing  many  and  setting  afire  an  area  equal 
to  eight  city  blocks. 

This  brought  governments  down  like 
hounds  upon  all  such  structures,  for  the  story 
had  more  space  play  in  truth  than  Jonathan’s 
successful  voyage  had  brought  forth.  The 
pages  of  victims  and  photographs  of  loved 
ones  left  behind ! 

Within  a month  the  Loyola,  an  explora- 
tional  vessel  supposed  to  survey  the  Moon 
for  a future  observatory,  went  out  of  con- 
trol in  its  return  and  vanished  into  the 
Caribbean. 

Two  months  afterwards  to  a day,  the 
Government  ship  XI,  a copy  of  Jonathan’s 
first,  radioed  midway  in  her  maiden  attempt 
to  reach  the  Moon  that  she  had  blown  her 
tubes  and  was  out  of  control.  The  XI  was 
never  heard  from  again  and  her  fate  is 
unknown. 

SPACE  flight  stopped.  By  mass  demand 
of  the  people,  it  was  forbidden  “until 
such  time  as  equipment  is  sufficiently  well 
developed  to  permit  safety” — though  just 
how  this  was  to  be  done  without  actually 
voyaging  was  a thing  Jonathan  could  not 
fathom. 

They  did  not  trouble  him  or  his  ship 
officially.  But  space  flight  had  fallen  into 
great  disrepute  and  with  it  had  fallen 
Jonathan.  His  moment  of  fame  was  gone. 
And  worse  than  gone,  for  he  was  blamed 
for  the  disasters  just  as  though  he  had  been 
consulted  about  their  construction. 

Jonathan  worked  hard  and  he  worked 
well.  He  knew  what  he  could  count  upon, 
he  knew  his  reserves  of  supplies  could  be 
huge.  He  knew  the  tools  he  would  require. 
He  worked  long,  too  preoccuppied  to  notice 
that  coldness  and  suspicion  that  greeted  him 
where  he  went,  that  children  often  crowded 
his  ungainly  steps  and  mocked  him  with 
shrill  cries  and  pelted  him  for  a monster. 

He  kept  on  working,  his  own  aide  the 
faithful  child,  long  since  run  away  from  the 
“Home.” 

The  ship  had  twice  the  motive  power, 
three  times  the  weight  of  the  first  It  could 


STARTLING  STORIES 


114 

make  its  own  oxygen  from  various  sub- 
stances. It  could  feel  out  and  automatically 
avoid  “space  dust.”  No  ship  would  be  as 
thorough  as  that  for  scores  of  years  to  come. 

The  Government  did  not  bother  Jonathan 
and  Jonathan  did  not  bother  the  Govern- 
ment. 

And  at  last  an  insulated  spheroid  stood 
upon  its  tripod  by  the  barn  and  the  ceaseless 
loading  was  all  done. 

Jonathan  came  out  and  picked  up  the  dog 
Tiger.  The  shiny-eyed  little  boy  followed 
him  into  the  ship. 

There  was  no  backward  glance,  no  crowd, 
no  fond  farewells.  The  Voyager  shuddered, 
trembled  in  a bath  of  flame  and  then  shot 
skyward,  faster  and  faster,  growing  smaller 
and  smaller  until  it  was  gone. 

It  never  returned. 

* * * * * 

Six  years  later  when  Pieter  Sven  set  out 
for  Mars  in  the  Marco  Polo  I,  a fine  cruise 
vessel  in  the  hands  of  a very  capable  man, 
he  had  some  doubts  as  to  the  capability  of  his 
craft  to  bring  him  back.  And  it  was  with 
wonder  that  men  received  his  tale  on  his 
return,  of  having  found  huge  markings  on 


a mountain  side  and  in  their  center  a 
weatherproof  cache  of  needful  fuel  and 
food. 

With  it  there  had  been  a careful  map  of 
Mars  in  six  copies,  a list  of  landing  places, 
a description  of  edibles  to  be  found,  a detail 
of  dangers  and  taboos  and  a very  painfully 
printed  booklet,  protected  from  the  weather, 
chained  to  a rock. 

“What  did  it  say?”  cried  Sven  indignant- 
ly. “It  said  Welcome,  how  else?  And  it 
said  it  in  a very  fine  way,  let  me  tell  you.” 

He  showed  them  his  photographs  of  it. 
The  title  page  said: 

A Description  of  the  Atmospheres  and  Surface 
Characteristics  of  Five  Planets  with  Certain  Warn- 
ings and  Dangers  to  Be  Met  in  the  Voyaging  of 
Space,  with  Plans  for  Improvements  of  Space 
Craft  and  Equipment. 

“Who  wrote  it?”  they  demanded.  “Where 
is  he?” 

“That,”  said  Sven,  putting  the  photos 
reverently  away,  “is  not  too  hard  to  answer.” 

He  withdrew  with  that  calm  air  men 
would  soon  associate  with  the  voyagers  of 
space  and  he  stood  for  a long,  long  time  in 
the  night  above  the  city’s  lights,  his  steady 
gaze  communicating  with  the  stars. 


Can  a world  which  is  dedicated  to  pleasure  rally  in  the  face  of 
cosmic  crisis?  This  question  is  put  to  the  test  when  a 
lucky  bumpkin,  a haughty  empress,  and  an  immortal 
man  join  forces  to  fight  time-space  disaster  in 

THE  WEAPON  SHOPS  OF  ISHER 
A New  Novel  by  E.  A.  VAN  VOGT 

Featured  in  the  February  issue  of  our  companion  magazine 

THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 

Now  on  Sale — 25c  Per  Copy  at  All  Stands! 


The  ticholama  plantation  was  an 
amazing  bargain,  if  it  were  not  for — 


THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS 


My  brain,  otherwise  a sound  instrument,  has  a 
serious  defect — a hypertrophied  lobe  of  curiosity. 

— Magnus  Ridolph. 

THE  afternoon  breeze  off  Irremedial 
Ocean  ruffling  his  beard,  yellow  Naos- 
light  burnishing  the  side  of  his  face, 
Magnus  Ridolph  gazed  glumly  across  his 
newly-acquired  plantation.  So  far,  so  good; 
in  fact,  too  good  to  be  true. 

He  shook  his  head,  frowned.  All  Blan- 
tham’s  representations  had  been  corroborated 


by  the  evidence  of  his  own  eyes : three  thou- 
sand acres  of  prime  ticholama,  ready  for  har- 
vest; a small  cottage,  native-style,  but  fur- 
nished adequately ; the  ocean  at  his  doorstep, 
the  mountains  in  his  back-yard.  Why  had  the 
price,  been  so  low  ? 

“Is  it  possible,’’  mused  Magnus  Ridolph, 
“that  Blantham  is  the  philanthropist  his  acts 
suggest  ? Or  does  the  ointment  conceal  a fly  ?” 
And  Magnus  Ridolph  pulled  at  his  beard 
with  petulant  fingers. 


A Magnus  Ridolph  Story  hj  JACK  VANCE 

115 


STARTLING  STORIES 


116 

Now  Naos  slipped  into  Irremedial  Ocean 
and  lime-green  evening  flowed  like  syrup 
down  out  of  the  badlands  which  formed  the 
northern  boundary  of  the  plantation.  Mag- 
nus Ridolph  half-turned  in  the  doorway, 
glanced  within.  Chook,  his  dwarfish  servant, 
was  sweeping  out  the  kitchen,  grunting  softly 
with  each  stroke  of  the  broom. 

Magnus  Ridoph  stepped  out  into  the  green 
twilight,  strolled  down  past  the  copter  land- 
ing to  the  first  of  the  knee-high  ticholama 
bushes. 

He  froze  in  his  tracks,  cocked  his  head. 

“ Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow”  in  a yelping 
chorus,  wild  and  strange,  drifted  from  across 
the  field.  Magnus  Ridolph  strained,  squinted 
through  the  dusk.  He  could  not  be  sure.  . . 
It  seemed  that  a tumult  of  dark  shapes  came 
boiling  down  from  the  badlands,  vague 
sprawling  things.  Olive-green  darkness  set- 
tled across  the  land.  Magnus  Ridolph  turned 
on  his  heel,  stalked  back  to  the  cottage. 

***** 

MAGNUS  Ridolph  had  been  resting 
quietly  in  his  hotel — the  Piedmont 
Inn  of  New  Napoli,  on  Naos  V — with  no 
slightest  inclination  toward  or  prospect  of 
an  agricultural  life.  Then  Blantham  knocked 
and  Magnus  Ridolph  opened  the  door. 

Blantham ’s  appearance  in  itself  was  enough 
to  excite  interest.  He  was  of  early  middle- 
age,  of  medium  height,  plump  at  the  waist, 
wide  at  the  hips,  narrow  at  the  shoulders. 

His  forehead  was  pale  and  narrow,  with 
eyes  set  fish-like,  wide  apart  under  the  tem- 
ples, the  skin  between  them  taut,  barely  dent- 
ed by  the  bridge  of  Iris  nose.  He  had  wide 
jowls,  a sparse  black  mustache,  a fine  white 
skin,  the  cheeks  meshed,  however,  with  min- 
ute pink  lines. 

He  wore  loose  maroon  corduroy  trousers, 
in  the  “Praesepe  Ranger”  style,  a turquoise 
blouse  with  a diamond  clasp,  a dark  blue  cape, 
and  beside  Magnus  Ridolph’s  simple  white 
and  blue  tunic,  he  appeared  somewhat  over- 
ripe. 

Magnus  Ridolph  blinked,  like  a delicate 
and  urbane  owl.  “Ah,  yes?” 

“I’m  Blantham,”  said  his  visitor  bluffly. 
“Gerard  Blantham.  We  haven’t  met  before.” 
Watching  under  his  fine  white  eyebrows, 
Magnus  Ridolph  gestured  courteously.  “I 
believe  not.  Will  you  come  in,  have  a seat?” 
Blantham  stepped  into  the  room,  flung 
back  his  cape. 

“Thank  you,”  he  said.  He  seated  him- 


self on  the  edge  of  a chair,  extended  a case. 
“Cigarette?” 

“Thank  you.”  Magnus  Ridolph  gravely 
helped  himself.  He  inhaled,  frowned,  took 
the  cigarette  from  his  lips,  examined  it. 

“Excuse  me,”  said  Blantham,  producing  a 
lighter.  “I  sometimes  forget.  I never  smoke 
self-igniters ; I can  detect  the  flavor  of  the 
chemical  instantly,  and  it  annoys  me.” 
“Unfortunate,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph, 
after  his  cigarette  was  aglow.  “My  senses  are 
not  so  precisely  adjusted,  and  I find  them  ex- 
tremely convenient.  Now,  what  can  I do  for 
you  ?” 

Blantham  hitched  at  his  trousers.  “I  un- 
derstand,” he  said,  looking  archly  upward, 
“that  you’re  interested  in  sound  investment.” 
“To  a certain  extent,”  said  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph, inspecting  Blantham  through  the 
smoke  of  his  cigarette.  “What  have  you  to 
offer?” 

“This.”  Blantham  reached  in  his  pocket, 
produced  a small  white  box.  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph, snapping  back  the  top,  found  within  a 
cluster  of  inch-long  purple  tubes,  twisting  and 
curling  away  from  a central  node.  They  were 
glossy,  flexible,  and  interspersed  with  long 
pink  fibers.  He  shook  his  head  politely. 

"I’m  afraid  I can’t  identify  the  object.” 
“It’s  ticholama,”  said  Blantham.  “Resilian 
in  its  natural  state.” 

“Indeed!”  and  Magnus  Ridolph  examined 
the  purple  cluster  with  new  interest. 

“Each  of  those  tubes,”  said  Blantham,  “is 
built  of  countless  spirals  of  resilian  molecules, 
each  running  the  entire  length  of  the  tube. 
That’s  the  property,  naturally,  which  gives 
resilian  its  tremendous  elasticity  and  tensile 
strength.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  touched  the  tubes,  which 
quivered  under  his  fingers.  “And?” 

Blantham  paused  impressively.  "I’m  sell- 
ing an  entire  plantation,  three  thousand  acres 
of  prime  ticholama  ready  to  harvest.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  blinked,  handed  back  the 
box.  “Indeed?”  He  rubbed  his  beard 
thoughtfully.  “The  holding  is  evidently  on 
Naos  Six.” 

“Correct,  sir.  The  only  location  which 
supports  the  growth  of  ticholama.” 

“And  what  is  your  price?” 

"A  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  munits.” 
Magnus  Ridolph  continued  to  pull  at  his 
beard.  “Is  that  a bargain?  I know  little  of 
agriculture  in  general,  ticholama  in  specific.” 
Blantham  moved  his  head  solemnly.  “It’s 
a giveaway.  An  acre  produces  a ton  of  ticho- 


117 


THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS 


lama.  The  selling  price,  delivered  at  Star- 
port,  is  fifty-two  munits  a ton,  current  quota- 
tion. Freight,  including  all  handling,  runs 
about  21  munits  a ton.  And  harvesting  costs 
you  about  eight  munits  a ton.  Expenses 
twenty-nine  munits  a ton,  net  profits,  twenty- 
three  munits  a ton.  On  three  thousand  acres 
that’s  sixty-nine  thousand  munits.  Next 
year  you’ve  paid  the  land  off,  and  after  that 
you’re  enjoying  sheer  profit.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  eyed  his  visitor  with  new 
interest,  the  hyper-developed  lobe  in  his  brain 
making  its  influence  felt.  Was  it  possible 
that  Blantham  intended  to  play  him — Mag- 
nus Ridolph — for  a sucker?  Could  he  con- 
ceivably be  so  optimistic,  so  ill-advised  ? 

“Your  proposition,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph 
aloud,  “sounds  almost  too  good  to  be  true.” 
Blantham  blinked,  stretching  the  skin 
across  his  nose  even  tauter.  “Well,  you  see 
I own  another  thirty-five  hundred  acres.  The 
plantation  I’m  offering  for  sale  is  half  the 
Hourglass  Peninsula,  the  half  against  the 
mainland.  Taking  care  of  the  seaward  half 
keeps  me  more  than  busy. 

“And  then,  frankly,  I need  money  quick. 
I had  a judgment  against  me — copter  crash, 
my  young  son  driving.  My  wife’s  eyes  went 
bad.  I had  to  pay  for  an  expensive  graft. 
Wasn’t  covered  by  Med  service,  worse  luck. 
And  then  my  daughter’s  away  at  school  on 
Earth — St.  Brigida’s,  London.  Terrible  ex- 
pense all  around.  I simply  need  quick 
money.” 

MAGNUS  RIDOLPH  stared  keenly  at 
the  man  from  beneath  shaggy  brows, 
and  nodded. 

“I  see,”  he  said.  “You  certainly  have  suf- 
fered an  unfortunate  succession  of  events. 
One  hundred  thirty  thousand  munits.  A 
reasonable  figure,  if  conditions  are  as  you 
state  ?” 

“They  are  indeed,”  was  Blantham’s  em- 
phatic reply. 

“The  ticholama  is  not  all  of  first  quality?” 
inquired  Magnus  Ridolph. 

“On  the  contrary,”  declared  Blantham. 
“Every  plant  is  in  prime  condition.” 

“Hm-m!”  Magnus  Ridolph  chewed  his 
lower  lip.  “I  assume  there  are  no  living 
quarters.” 

Blantham  chortled,  his  lips  rounded  to  a 
curious  red  O.  “I  forgot  to  mention  the  cot- 
tage. A fine  little  place,  native-style,  of 
course,  but  in  A-One  condition.  Absolutely 
livable.  I believe  I have  a photograph.  Yes, 


here  it  is.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  took  the  paper,  saw  a 
long  building  of  gray  and  green  slate — con- 
vex-gabled, with  concave  end-walls,  a row 
of  Gothic-arch  openings.  The  field  behind 
stretched  rich  purple  out  to  the  first  crags  of 
the  badlands. 

“Behind  you’ll  see  part  of  the  plantation,” 
said  Blantham.  “Notice  the  color?  Deep 
dark  purple — the  best.” 

“Humph,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “Well, 
I’d  have  to  furnish  the  cottage.  That  would 
run  into  considerable  money.” 

Blantham  smilingly  shook  his  head.  “Not 
unless  you’re  the  most  sybaritic  of  sybarites. 
But  I must  guard  against  misrepresentation. 
The  cottage  is  primitive  in  some  respects. 
There  is  no  telescreen,  no  germicide,  no  auto- 
lume.  The  power  plant  is  small,  there’s  no 
cold  cell,  no  laundromat.  And  unless  you  fly 
out  a rado-cooker,  you’d  have  to  cook  in  pots 
over  heating  elements.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  frowned,  glanced  sharply 
at  Blantham.  “I’d  naturally  hire  a servant. 
The  water  ? What  arrangements,  if  any, 
exist  ?” 

“An  excellent  still.  Two  hundred  gallons 
a day.” 

“That  certainly  seems  adequate,”  said 
Magnus  Ridolph.  He  returned  to  the  photo- 
graph. “What  is  this  ?”  He  indicated  a patch 
in  the  field  where  one  of  the  spurs  from  the 
badlands  entered  the  field. 

Blantham  examined  the  photograph.  “I 
really  can’t  say.  Evidently  a small  area 
where  the  soil  is  poor.  It  seems  to  be  minor 
in  extent.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  studied  the  photograph  a 
minute  longer,  returned  it.  “You  paint  an  ar- 
resting picture.  I admit  the  possibility  of 
doubling  my  principal  almost  immediately  is 
one  which  I encounter  rarely.  If  you’ll  tick 
off  your  address  on  my  transview,  I’ll  notify 
you  tomorrow  of  my  decision.” 

Blantham  rose.  “I’ve  a suite  right  here  in 
the  hotel,  Mr.  Ridolph.  You  can  call  me  any 
time.  I imagine  that  the  further  you  look 
into  my  proposition,  the  more  attractive 
you’ll  find  it.” 

To  Magnus  Ridolph’s  puzzlement,  Blan- 
tham’s prediction  was  correct.  When  he  men- 
tioned the  matter  to  Sam  Quien,  a friend  in 
the  brokerage  business,  Quien  whistled, 
shook  his  head. 

“Sounds  like  a steal.  I’ll  contract  right 
now  for  the  entire  crop.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  next  obtained  a quotation 


118 


STARTLING  STORIES 


on  freight  rates  from  Naos  VI  to  Starport, 
and  frowned  when  the  rate  proved  a half 
munit  less  per  ton  than  Blantham’s  estimate. 
By  the  laws  of  logic,  somewhere  there  must 
be  flaw  in  the  bargain.  But  where  ? 

In  the  Labor  Office  he  approached  a win- 
dow behind  which  stood  a Fomalhaut  V Rho- 
dopian. 

“Suppose  I want  to  harvest  a field  of  ticho- 
lama  on  Naos  Six,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph. 
“What  would  be  my  procedure?” 

The  Rhodopian  bobbed  his  head  as  he 
spoke.  “You  make  arrangement  on  Naos 
Six,”  he  lisped.  “In  Garswan.  Contractor, 
he  fix  all  harvest.  Very  cheap,  on  Naos  Six. 
Contractor  he  use  many  pickers,  very  cheap.” 
“I  see,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “Thank 
you.” 

He  slowly  returned  to  the  hotel.  At  the 
mnemiphot  in  the  reading  room  he  verified 
Blantham’s  statement  that  an  acre  of  land 
yielded  a ton  of  ticholama,  which,  when  proc- 
essed and  the  binding  gums  dissolved,  yield- 
ed about  five  hundred  pounds  of  resilian.  He 
found  further  that  the  demand  for  resilian 
exceeded  by  far  the  supply. 

He  returned  to  his  room,  lay  down  on 
his  bed,  considered  an  hour.  At  last  he 
stood  up,  called  Blantham  on  the  trans- 
view. “Mr.  Blantham,  I’ve  provisionally  de- 
cided to  accept  your  offer.” 

“Good,  good !”  came  Blantham’s  voice. 
“Naturally,  before  finally  consummating 
the  sale,  I wish  to  inspect  the  property.” 

“Of  course,”  came  the  hearty  response. 
“An  interplanet  ship  leaves  day  after  tomor- 
row. Will  that  suit  you?” 

“Very  well  indeed,”  was  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph’s  reply.  . . . 

BLANTHAM  pointed.  "That’s  your 
plantation,  there  ahead,  the  entire  first 
half  of  the  peninsula.  Mine  is  the  second 
half,  just  over  that  cliff.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  said  nothing,  peered 
through  the  copter  window.  Below  them  the 
badlands — arid  crags,  crevasses,  rock-jum- 
ble— fell  astern,  and  they  flew  out  over  Hour- 
glass Peninsula.  Beyond  lay  Irremedial 
Ocean,  streaked  and  mottled  red,  blue,  green, 
yellow  by  vast  colonies  of  colored  plankton. 

They  put  down  at  the  cottage.  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph alighted,  walked  to  the  edge  of  the 
field,  bent  over.  The  plants  were  thick,  lux- 
uriant, amply  covered  with  the  clusters  of 


up  behind  him. 

“Beautiful,  isn’t  it?”  said  Blantham  mildly. 

Magnus  Ridolph  was  forced  to  agree. 
Everything  was  beautiful.  Blantham’s  title 
was  clear,  so  Magnus  Ridolph  had  verified  in 
Garswan.  The  harvester  agreed  to  a figure 
of  eight  munits  a ton,  the  work  to  begin  im- 
mediately after  he  had  finished  Blantham’s 
field.  In  short,  the  property  at  the  price 
seemed  an  excellent  buy.  And  yet — 

Magnus  Ridolph  took  another  look  across 
the  field.  “That  patch  of  poor  soil  seems 
larger  than  it  appeared  in  the  photograph.” 

Blantham  made  a deprecatory  noise  in  his 
nose.  “I  can  hardly  see  how  that  is  possible.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  stood  quietly  a moment, 
the  nostrils  of  his  long  distinguished  nose 
slightly  distended.  Abruptly  he  pulled  out 
his  checkbook. 

“Your  check,  sir.” 

“Thank  you.  I have  the  deed  and  the  re- 
lease in  my  pocket.  I’ll  just  sign  it  and  the 
property’s  yours.” 

Blantham  politely  took  his  leave  in  the 
copter  and  Magnus  Ridolph  was  left  on  the 
plantation  in  the  gathering  dusk.  And  then — 
the  wild  yelling  from  across  the  field,  the 
vaguely  seen  shapes,  pelting  against  the  after- 
glow. Magnus  Ridolph  returned  into  the 
cottage. 

He  looked  into  the  kitchen,  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  his  servant  Chook,  a barrel- 
shaped anthropoid  from  the  Garswan  High- 
lands. Chook  had  gray  lumpy  skin,  boneless 
rope-like  arms,  eyes  round  and  bottle-green, 
a mouth  hidden  somewhere  behind  flabby 
folds  of  skin.  Magnus  Ridolph  found  him 
standing  with  head  cocked  to  the  distant 
yelping. 

Ah,  Chook,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph. 
“What  have  you  prepared  for  our  dinner?” 

Chook  gestured  to  a steaming  pot.  “Stew.” 
His  voice  came  from  his  stomach,  a heavy 
rumble.  "Stew  is  good.”  A gust  of  wind 
brought  the  yelping  closer.  Chook’s  arms 
twitched. 

“What  causes  that  outcry,  Chook?”  de- 
manded Magnus  Ridolph,  turning  a curious 
ear  toward  the  disturbance. 


Chook  looked  at  him  quizzically.  “Them 
the  Howling  Bounders.  Very  bad.  Kill  you, 
kill  me.  Kill  everything.  Eat  up  ticholama.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  seated  himself.  “Now — I 
see.”  He  smiled  without  humor.  “I  see!  . . 
Hmph.” 

“Like  stew  ?”  inquired  Chook,  pot  ready. . . 

Next  morning  Magnus  Ridolph  arose 


THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS 


early,  as  was  his  habit,  strolled  into  the  kitch- 
en. Chook  lay  on  the  floor,  curled  into  a gray 
leathery  ball.  At  Magnus  Ridolph’s  tread  he 
raised  his  head,  showed  an  eye,  rumbled  from 
deep  inside  his  body. 

“I’m  going  for  a walk,”  said  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph.  “I  intend  to  be  gone  an  hour.  When  I 
return  we  shall  have  our  breakfast.” 

CHOOK  slowly  lowered  his  head  and 
Magnus  Ridolph  stepped  out  into  the 
cool  silence,  full  into  the  horizontal  light  of 
Naos,  just  rising  from  the  ocean  like  a red- 
hot  stove-lid.  The  air  from  the  ticholama 
fields  seemed  very  fresh  and  rich  in  oxygen, 
and  Magnus  Ridolph  set  off  with  a feeling  of 
well-being. 

A half-hour’s  walk  through  the  knee-high 
bushes  brought  him  to  the  base  of  the  out- 
lying spur  and  to  the  patch  of  land  which 
Blantham  had  termed  poor  soil. 

Magnus  Ridolph  shook  his  head  sadly  at 
the  devastation.  Ticholama  plants  had  Seen 
stripped  of  the  purple  tubes,  ripped  up, 
thrown  into  heaps. 

The  line  of  ruin  roughly  paralleled  the 
edge  of  the  spur.  Once  again  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph shook  his  head. 

“A  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  munits 
poorer.  I wonder  if  my  increment  of  wisdom 
may  be  valued  at  that  figure?” 

He  returned  to  the  cottage.  Chook  was 
busy  at  the  stove,  and  greeted  him  with  a 
grunt. 

“Ha,  Chook,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph,  “and 
what  have  we  for  breakfast  ?” 

“Is  stew,”  said  Chook. 

Magnus  Ridolph  compressed  his  lips.  “No 
doubt  an  excellent  dish.  But  do  you  con- 
sider it,  so  to  speak,  a staple  of  diet?” 
“Stew  is  good,”  was  the  stolid  reply. 

“As  you  wish,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph  im- 
passively. 

After  breakfast  he  retired  to  the  study,  and 
called  into  Garswan  on  the  antiquated  old 
radiophone. 

“Connect  me  with  the  T.C.I.  office.” 

A hum,  a buzz.  “Terrestrial  Corps  of  In- 
telligence,” said  a brisk  male  voice.  “Captain 
Solinsky  speaking.” 

“Captain  Solinsky,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph, 
“I  wonder  if  you  can  give  me  any  informa- 
tion concerning  the  creatures  known  as  the 
Howling  Bounders.” 

A slight  pause.  “Certainly,  sir.  May  I ask 
who  is  speaking?” 

“My  name  is  Magnus  Ridolph;  I recently 


119 

acquired  a ticholama  plantation  here,  on  the 
Hourglass  Peninsula.  Now  I find  that  it  is 
in  the  process  of  despoliation  by  these  same 
Howling  Bounders.” 

The  voice  had  taken  a sharper  pitch.  “Did 
you  say — Magnus  Ridolph?” 

“That  is  my  name.” 

“Just  a moment,  Mr.  Ridolph!  I’ll  get 
everything  we  have.” 

After  a pause  the  voice  returned.  “What 
we  have  isn’t  much.  No  one  knows  much 
about  ’em.  They  live  in  the  Bouro  Badlands, 
nobody  knows  how  many.  There’s  apparent- 
ly only  a single  tribe,  as  they’re  never  re- 
ported in  two  places  at  the  same  time.  They 
seem  to  be  semi-intelligent  simians  or  an- 
thropoids— no  one  knows  exactly.” 

“These  creatures  have  never  been  exam- 
ined at  close  hand?”  asked  Magnus  Ridolph 
in  some  surprise. 

“Never.”  After  a second’s  pause  Solinsky 
said:  “The  weird  things  can’t  be  caught. 
They’re  elastic- — live  off  ticholama,  eat  it  just 
before  it’s  ready  to  harvest.  In  the  day  time 
they  disappear,  nobody  knows  where,  and  at 
night  they’re  like  locusts,  black  phantoms. 
A party  from  Carnegie  Tech  tried  to  trap 
them,  but  they  tore  the  traps  to  pieces.  They 
can’t  be  poisoned,  a bullet  bounces  off  their 
hides,  they  dodge  out  of  heat-beams,  deltas 
don’t  phase  them.  We’ve  never  got  close 
enough  to  use  supersonics,  but  they  probably 
wouldn’t  even  notice.” 

“They  would  seem  almost  invulnerable 
then- — to  the  usual  methods  of  destruction,” 
was  Magnus  Ridolph’s  comment. 

“That’s  about  it,”  said  Solinsky  brightly. 
“I  suppose  a meson  grenade  would  do  the 
trick,  but  there  wouldn’t  be  much  specimen 
left  for  you  to  examine.” 

“My  interest  in  these  creatures  is  not  whol- 
ly impersonal,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “They 
are  devouring  my  ticholama;  I want  to  halt 
this  activity.” 

“Well — ” Solinsky  hesitated.  “I  don’t  like 
to  say  it,  Mr.  Ridolph,  but  I’m  afraid  there’s 
very  little  you  can  do — except  next  year 
don’t  raise  so  tempting  a crop.  They  only  go 
after  the  choicest  fields.  Another  thing, 
they’re  dangerous.  Any  poor  devil  they 
chance  upon,  they  tear  him  to  pieces.  So 
don’t  go  out  with  a shotgun  to  scare  ’em 
away.” 

“No,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “I  shall  have 
to  devise  other  means.” 

“Hope  you  succeed,”  said  Solinsky.  “No 
one  ever  has  before.” 


STARTLING  STORIES 


120 

MAGNUS  RIDOLPH  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  where  Chook  was  peeling 
starchy  blue  bush-apples. 

“I  see  you  are  preparing  lunch,”  said  Mag- 
nus Ridolph.  “Is  it — ?”  He  raised  his  eye- 
brows interrogatively. 

Chook  tumbled  an  affirmative,  Magnus 
Ridolph  came  over  beside  him,  watched  a 
moment. 

“Have  you  ever  seen  one  of  these  Howling 
Bounders  close  at  hand?” 

“No,”  said  Chook.  “When  I hear  noise,  I 
sleep,  stay  quiet.” 

“What  do  they  look  like?” 

“Very  tall,  long  arm.  Ugly — like  men.” 
He  turned  a lambent  bottle-green  eye  at  Mag- 
nus Ridolph’s  beard.  “But  no  hair.” 

“I  see,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph,  stroking 
the  beard.  He  wandered  outside,  seated  him- 
self on  a bench,  and  relaxed  in  the  warm  light 
of  Naos.  He  found  a piece  of  paper,  scrib- 
bled. A buzz  reached  his  ears,  grew  louder, 
and  presently  Blantham’s  copter  dropped  into 
his  front  yard.  Blantham  hopped  out,  brisk, 
cleanly-shaven,  his  wide-set  eyes  bright,  his 
jowls  pink  with  health.  When  he  saw  Mag- 
nus Ridolph,  he  shaped  his  features  into  a 
frame  of  grave  solicitude. 

“Mr.  Ridolph,  a distressing  report  has 
reached  me.  I understand — I just  learned 
this  morning — that  those  devilish  Bounders 
have  been  seen  on  your  plantation.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  nodded.  “Yes,  something 
of  that  nature  has  been  called  to  my  atten- 
tion.” 

“Words  can’t  convey  my  sense  of  guilt,” 
said  Blantham.  “Naturally  I’d  never  have 
saddled  you  with  the  property  if  I’d 
known  . . .” 

“Naturally,”  agreed  Magnus  Ridolph  sic- 
catively. 

“As  soon  as  I heard,  I came  over  to  make 
what  amends  I could,  but  I fear  they  can  only 
be  nominal.  You  see,  last  night,  as  soon  as  I 
banked  your  check,  I paid  off  a number  of 
outstanding  debts  and  I only  have  about  fifty 
thousand  munits  left.  If  you’d  like  me  to 
take  over  the  burden  of  coping  with  those 
beasts.”  He  paused,  coughed. 

Magnus  Ridolph  looked  mildly  upward. 
“That’s  exceedingly  generous  of  you,  Mr 
Blantham — a gesture  few  men  would  make. 
However  I think  I may  be  able  to  salvage 
something  from  the  property.  I am  not  com- 
pletely discouraged.” 

“Good,  good,”  was  Blantham’s  hasty  com- 
ment. “Never  say  die;  I always  admire 


courage.  But  I’d  better  warn  you  that  once 
those  pestiferous  Bounders  start  on  a field 
they  never  stop  till  they’ve  run  through  the 
whole  works.  When  they  reach  the  cottage 
you’ll  be  in  extreme  danger.  Many,  many 
men  and  women  they’ve  killed.” 

“Perhaps,”  Magnus  Ridolph  suggested, 
“you  will  permit  the  harvester  to  gather  such 
of  my  crop  as  he  is  able  before  starting  with 
yours?” 

Blantham’s  face  became  long  and  doleful. 
“Mr.  Ridolph,  nothing  could  please  me  more 
than  to  say  yes  to  your  request,  but  you  don’t 
know  these  Garswan  contractors.  They’re 
stubborn,  inflexible.  If  I were  to  suggest  any 
change  in  our  contract,  he’d  probably  cancel 
the  entire  thing.  And  naturally  I must  pro- 
tect my  wife,  my  family.  In  the  second  place, 
there  is  probably  little  of  your  ticholama  ripe 
enough  to  harvest.  The  Bounders,  you  know, 
attack  the  plant  just  before  its  maturity.”  He 
shook  his  head.  “With  the  best  of  inten- 
tions, I can’t  see  how  to  help  you,  unless  it’s 
by  the  method  I suggested  a moment  ago.” 
Magnus  Ridolph  raised  his  eyebrows.  “Sell 
you  back  the  property  for  fifty  thousand 
munits  ?” 

Blantham  coughed.  “I’d  hardly  call  it  sell- 
ing. I merely  wish — ” 

“Naturally,  naturally,”  agreed  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph. “However  let  us  view  the  matter  from 
a different  aspect.  Let  us  momentarily  for- 
get that  we  are  friends,  neighbors,  almost 
business  associates,  each  acting  only  through 
motives  of  the  highest  integrity.  Let  us  as- 
sume that  we  are  strangers,  unmoral,  preda- 
tory.” 

BLANTHAM  blew  out  his  cheeks,  eyed 
Magnus  Ridolph  doubtfully.  “Far- 
fetched, of  course.  But  go  on.” 

“On  this  latter  assumption,  let  us  come  to 
a new  agreement.” 

“Such  as?” 

“Let  us  make  a wager,”  mused  Magnus 
Ridolph.  “The  plantation  here  against — say, 
a hundred  thirty  thousand  munits — but  I for- 
got. You  have  spent  your  money.” 

“What  would  be  the  terms  of  the  wager?” 
inquired  Blantham,  inspecting  his  finger-tips. 

“A  profit  of  sixty-nine  thousand  munits 
was  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  sale  of 
the  property.  The  advent  of  the — ah ! — 
Howling  Bounders  made  this  figure  possibly 
over-optimistic.” 

Blantham  murmured  sympathetically. 
“However,”  continued  Magnus  Ridolph, 


THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS 


“I  believe  that  a profit  of  sixty-nine  thousand 
munits  is  not  beyond  reason,  and  I would  like 
to  wager  the  plantation  against  130,000 
munits  on  those  terms.” 

Blantham  gave  Magnus  Ridolph  a long 
bright  stare.  “From  sale  of  ticholama?” 
Magnus  Ridolph  eloquently  held  his  arms 
out  from  his  sides.  “What  else  is  there  to 
yield  a profit?” 

“There’s  no  mineral  on  the  property,  that’s 
certain,”  muttered  Blantham.  “No  oil,  no 
magnoflux  vortex.”  He  looked  across  the 
field  to  the  devastated  area.  “When  those 
Bounders  start  on  a field,  they  don’t  stop, 
you  know.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  shrugged.  “Protecting 
my  land  from  intrusion  is  a problem  to  which 
a number  of  solutions  must  exist.” 

Blantham  eyed  him  curiously.  “You’re 
very  confident.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  pursed  his  lips.  “I  be- 
lieve in  an  aggressive  attitude  toward  diffi- 
culties.” 

Blantham  turned  once  more  toward  the 
blighted  area,  looked  boldly  back  at  Magnus 
Ridolph.  “I’ll  take  that  bet.” 

“Good,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “Let  us 
take  your  copter  to  Garswan  and  cast  the 
wager  into  a legal  form.” 

In  the  street  below  the  notary’s  office  later, 
Magnus  Ridolph  tucked  his  copy  of  the  agree- 
ment into  the  microfilm  compartment  of  his 
wallet. 

“I  think,”  he  told  Blantham,  who  was 
watching  him  covertly  with  an  air  of  sly 
amusement,  “that  I’ll  remain  in  Garswan  the 
remainder  of  the  day.  I want  to  find  a copter, 
perhaps  take  back  a few  supplies.” 

“Very  well,  Mr.  Ridolph,”  and  Blantham 
inclined  his  head  courteously,  swung  his  dark 
blue  cape  jauntily  across  his  shoulders.  “I 
wish  you  the  best  of  luck  with  your  planta- 
tion.” 

“Thank  you,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph, 
equally  punctilious,  “and  may  you  likewise 
enjoy  the  returns  to  which  you  are  entitled.” 
Blantham  departed ; Magnus  Ridolph 
turned  up  the  main  street.  Garswan  owed 
its  place  as  Naos  Vi’s  first  city  only  to  a level 
field  of  rock-hard  clay,  originally  the  site  of 
native  fire-dances.  There  was  little  else  to 
commend  Garswan,  certainly  no  scenic  beau- 
ty- 

The  main  street  started  at  the  space-port, 
wound  under  a great  raw  bluff  of  red  shale, 
plunged  into  a jungle  of  snake-vine,  inch- 
moss,  hammock  tree.  The  shops  and  dwell- 


121 

ings  were  half  of  native-style,  of  slate  slabs 
with  curving  gables  and  hollow  end-walls ; 
half  dingy  frame  buildings.  There  was  a 
warehouse,  a local  of  the  space-men’s  union, 
a Rhodopian  social  hall,  an  Earth-style 
drug-store,  a side  street  given  to  a native 
market,  a copter  yard. 

At  the  copter  yard,  Magnus  Ridolph  found 
a choice  of  six  or  seven  vehicles,  all  weather- 
beaten and  over-priced.  He  ruefully  selected 
a six-jet  Spur,  and  closing  his  ears  to  the 
whine  of  the  bearings,  flew  it  away  to  a ga- 
rage, where  he  ordered  it  fueled  and  lubri- 
cated. 

. He  stepped  into  the  TCI  office,  where  he 
was  received  with  courtesy.  He  requested  and 
was  permitted  use  of  the  mnemiphot.  Seating 
himself  comfortably,  he  found  the  code  for 
resilian,  ticked  it  into  the  selector,  attentively 
pursued  the  facts,  pictures,  formulae,  statis- 
tics drifting  across  the  screen.  He  noted  the 
tensile  strength — about  the  same  as  mild 
steel,  and  saw  with  interest  that  resilian 
dampened  with  hesso-penthol  welded  in- 
stantly into  another  piece  of  resilian. 

HE  LEANED  back  in  his  chair,  tapped 
his  pencil  thoughtfully  against  his 
notebook.  He  returned  to  the  mnemiphot, 
dialed  ahead  to  the  preparation  of  resilian 
from  the  raw  ticholama.  The  purple  tubes, 
he  found,  were  frozen  in  liquid  air,  passed 
through  a macerator,  which  pulverized  the 
binding  gums,  soaked  in  hesso-hexylic  acid, 
then  alcohol,  dried  in  a centrifuge,  a process 
which  left  the  fibres  in  a felt-like  mat.  This 
mat  was  combed  until  the  fibers  lay  parallel, 
impregnated  with  hesso-penthol  and  com- 
pressed into  a homogeneous  substance — re- 
silian. 

Again  Magnus  Ridolph  sat  back,  his  mild 
blue  eyes  focused  on  space.  Presently  he 
arose,  left  the  office,  crossed  the  street  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  local  construction  com- 
pany. Here  he  spent  almost  an  hour;  then, 
returning  to  the  garage,  he  picked  up  his  cop- 
ter, and  rising  high  over  the  jungle,  headed 
south.  The  jumble  of  the  Bouro  Badlands 
passed  below,  Hourglass  Peninsula  spread 
before  him,  with  his  plantation  filling  the 
landward  half,  that  of  Blantham’s  the  remain- 
der. 

Naos  hung  low  over  the  sea  when  he 
landed.  Chook  was  standing  in  the  pointed 
doorway,  eyes  fixed  vacantly  across  the  ticho- 
lama field,  arms  dangling  almost  to  the 
ground. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


122 

“Good  evening,  Chook,”  said  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph,  handing  his  servant  a parcel.  “A  bot- 
tle of  wine  to  aid  your  digestion.” 

" R-r-r-r." 

Magnus  Ridolph  glanced  into  the  kitchen. 
“I  see  that  you  have  dinner  prepared.  Well, 
let  us  eat  our  stew,  and  then  the  evening  will 
be  free  for  intellectual  exercises.” 

The  blurred  green  twilight  drifted  down 
from  the  badlands,  and,  dinner  over,  Magnus 
Ridolph  stepped  outside  into  the  evening 
quiet.  Under  different  circumstances  he 
would  have  enjoyed  the  vista — the  olive-dark 
massif  to  his  left,  the  fields,  black  in  the 
greenish  light,  the  blue-green  sky  with  a few 
lavender  and  orange  clouds  over  the  ocean. 
A faint  yelp  came  to  his  ears — far,  far  distant, 
mournful,  lonely  as  a ghost-cry.  Then  there 
came  a quick  far  chorus:  “Ow-ow-ow-ow.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  entered  the  cottage, 
emerged  with  a pair  of  infra-red-sensitive 
binoculars.  Down  from  the  mountains  came 
the  Bounders,  leaping  pell-mell  high  in  the 
air,  hopping  like  monstrous  fleas,  and  the  sug- 
gestion of  humanity  in  their  motion  sent  a 
chill  along  Magnus  Ridolph’s  usually  imper- 
turbable spine. 

" Ow-ow-ow-ow came  the  far  chorus,  as 
the  Bounders  flung  themselves  upon  Magnus 
Ridolph’s  ticholama. 

Magnus  Ridolph  nodded  grimly.  “Tomor- 
row night,  my  destructive  guests,  you  shall 
sing  a different  song.” 

The  construction  crew  arrived  from  Gars- 
wan  the  next  morning  in  a great  copter 
which  carried  below  a bulldozer.  They  came 
while  Magnus  Ridolph  was  still  at  break- 
fast. Swallowing  the  last  of  his  stew,  he  took 
them  out  to  the  devastated  tract,  showed 
them  what  he  wished  done. 

Late  afternoon  found  the  project  com- 
plete, the  last  of  the  equipment  installed  and 
Magnus  Ridolph  engaged  in  testing  the  ma- 
chinery. 

A heavy  concrete  pill-box  now  rose  on  the 
border  of  the  blighted  acreage,  a windowless 
building  reinforced  with  steel  and  set  on  a 
heavy  foundation.  A hundred  yards  from 
the  pill-box  a ten-foot  cylindrical  block  stood 
anchored  deep  into  the  ground.  An  endless 
herculoy  cable  ran  from  the  pill-box,  around 
a steel-collared  groove  in  the  block,  back 
into  the  pill-box,  where  it  passed  around  the 
drum  of  an  electric  winch,  then  out  again 
to  the  block. 

Magnus  Ridolph  glanced  around  the  little 
room  with  satisfaction.  There  had  been  no 


time  for  attention  to  detail,  but  the  winch  ran 
smoothly,  pulled  the  cable  easily  out,  around 
the  anchor  block,  back  again.  Inside  the  door 
rose  a stack  of  resilian  plates,  each  an  inch 
thick,  each  trailing  three  feet  of  herculoy 
chain. 

Magnus  ridolph  took  a last  look 

about  the  pill-box,  then  strolled  se- 
dately to  his  copter,  flew  back  to  the  cottage. 
Chook  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 
“Chook,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph,  “do  you 
consider  yourself  brave,  resourceful,  reso- 
lute?” 

Chook’s  bottle-green  eyes  moved  in  two 
different  directions.  “I  am  cook.” 

“Mmph,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph.  “Of 
course.  But  tonight  I wish  to  observe  the 
Howling  Bounders  at  close  quarters,  and  de- 
siring some  assistance,  I have  selected  you  to 
accompany  me.” 

Chook’s  eyes  turned  even  farther  out  of 
focus.  “Chook  busy  tonight.” 

“What  is  the  nature  of  your  task?”  in- 
quired Magnus  Ridolph  frostily. 

“Chook  write  letter.” 

Magnus  Ridolph  turned  away  impatiently. 
During  the  course  of  the  meal  he  once  more 
suggested  that  Chook  join  him,  but  Chook 
remained  obdurate.  And  so  about  an  hour 
before  sunset  Magnus  Ridolph  shouldered  a 
light  knapsack  and  set  out  on  foot  for  his 
pill-box. 

The  shadow  of  the  foremost  spur  had  en- 
gulfed the  little  concrete  dome  when  he  final- 
ly arrived.  Without  delay  he  ducked  into 
the  dark  interior,  dropped  the  knapsack  to  the 
floor. 

He  tested  the  door.  It  slid  easily  up  and 
down,  locked  securely.  He  moved  the  rheo- 
stat controlling  the  winch.  The  drum  turned, 
the  cable  slid  out  to  the  anchor  block,  around, 
returned.  Magnus  Ridolph  now  took  one 
of  his  resilian  plates,  shackled  the  tail-chain 
to  the  cable,  set  it  down  directly  before  the 
doorway,  lowered  the  door  to  all  but  a slit, 
seated  himself,  lit  a cigarette,  waited. 

Shade  crept  across  the  dark  purple  field, 
the  blue-green  sky  shaded  through  a series  of 
deepening  sub-marine  colors.  There  was  si- 
lence, an  utter  hush. 

From  the  mountains  came  a yelp,  far  but 
very  keen.  It  echoed  down  the  rock -canyons. 
As  if  it  were  a signal,  a series  of  other  yells 
followed,  a few  louder  and  closer,  but  for  the 
most  part  nearly  lost  out  in  the  wasteland. 

“ Ow-ow-ow-ow.  ” 


THE  HOWLING  BOUNDERS 


This  time  the  cries  were  louder,  mournful, 
close  at  hand,  and  Magnus  Ridolph,  peering 
through  the  peep-hole  in  the  door,  saw  the 
tumble  of  figures  come  storming  down  the 
hill,  black  against  the  sky.  He  dipped  a brush 
into  a pan  of  liquid  nearby,  slid  the  door  up 
a trifle,  reached  out,  swabbed  the  resilian 
plate,  slid  the  door  shut.  Rising,  he  put  his 
eye  to  the  peep-hole. 

The  howling  sounded  overhead  now,  to  all 
sides,  full  of  throbbing  new  overtones,  and 
Magnus  Ridolph  caught  the  flicker  of  dark 
figures  close  at  hand. 

A thud  on  top  the  pill-box,  a yell  from  di- 
rectly overhead,  and  Magnus  Ridolph 
clenched  his  thin  old  hands. 

Bumps  sounded  beside  the  pill-box,  the 
cable  twitched.  The  howling  grew  louder, 
higher  in  pitch,  the  roof  resounded  to  a series 
of  thuds.  The  cable  gave  a furious  jerk, 
swung  back  and  forth. 

Magnus  Ridolph  smiled  grimly  to  himself. 
Outside  now  he  heard  a hoarse  yammering, 
then  angry  panting,  the  jingle  of  furiously 
shaken  chain.  And  he  glimpsed  a form  long- 
er than  a man,  with  long  lank  arms  and  legs, 
a narrow  head,  flinging  itself  savagely  back 
and  forth  from  the  snare. 

Magnus  Ridolph  started  the  winch,  pulled 
the  plate  and  its  captive  approximately  ten 
feet  out  toward  the  anchor  block,  shackled 
another  plate  to  the  cable,  daubed  it  with 
heso-penthol,  raised  the  door  a trifle,  shoved 
the  plate  outside.  It  was  snatched  from  his 
hands.  Magnus  Ridolph  slammed  the  door 
down,  rose  to  the  peephole.  Another  dark 
form  danced,  bounded  back  and  forth  across 
the  cable,  which,  taking  up  the  slack  in  the 
chain,  threw  the  creature  headlong  to  the 
ground  with  every  bound. 

THE  YELLS  outside  almost  deafened 
Magnus  Ridolph,  and  the  pill-box  ap- 
peared to  be  encircled.  He  prepared  another 
plate,  raised  the  door  a slit,  slid  the  plate  un- 
der. Again  it  was  snatched  from  his  hands, 
but  this  time  black  fingers  thrust  into  the  slit, 
heaved  with  a bone-crushing  strength. 

But  Magnus  Ridolph  had  foreseen  the  con- 
tingency, had  a steel  bar  locking  down  the 
door.  The  fingers  strained  again.  Magnus 
Ridolph  took  his  heat-pencil,  turned  it  on  the 
fingers.  The  steel  changed  color,  glowed, 
the  fingers  gave  off  a nauseating  stench,  sud- 
denly were  snatched  back.  Magnus  Ridolph 
shackled  another  plate  to  the  cable. 

Two  hours  passed.  Every  plate  he  shoved 


123 

under  the  door  was  viciously  yanked  out  of 
his  hands.  Sometimes  fingers  would  seek  the 
slit,  to  be  repelled  by  the  heat-pencil,  until  the 
room  was  dense  with  stifling  organic  smoke. 
Shackle  the  plate,  daub  it,  slide  it  out,  slam 
the  door,  run  the  cable  further  out  on  the 
winch,  look  through  the  peep-hole.  The 
winch  creaked,  the  pill-box  vibrated  to  the 
frenzied  tugging  from  without.  He  sent  out 
his  last  plate,  peered  through  the  peep-hole. 
The  cable  was  lined,  out  to  the  anchor  block 
and  back  with  frantic  tireless  forms,  and 
overhead  others  pelted  the  pill-box. 

Magnus  Ridolph  composed  himself  against 
the  concrete  wall,  found  a flask  in  his  knap- 
sack and  took  a long  drink. 

A groaning  from  the  winch  disturbed  him. 
He  arose  painfully,  old  joints  stiff,  peered 
through  the  peep-hole. 

A form  of  concerted  action  was  in  prog- 
ress : the  cable  was  lined  solidly  on  both 
sides  with  black  shapes.  They  bent,  rose,  and 
the  drum  of  the  winch  creaked,  squawked. 
Magnus  Ridolph  released  the  winch  brake, 
jerked  the  cable  forward  and  back  several 
times,  and  the  line  of  black  figures  swayed 
willy-nilly  back  and  forth.  Suddenly,  like  a 
flight  of  black  ghosts,  they  left  the  cable, 
bounded  toward  the  pill-box. 

Clang!  Against  the  steel  door — the  jar  of 
a great  weight.  Clang!  The  door  ground 
back  against  its  socket.  Magnus  Ridolph 
rubbed  his  beard.  The  steel  presumably 
would  hold,  and  likewise  the  sill,  bolted  deep 
into  the  concrete.  But,  of  course,  no  con-- 
struction  was  invulnerable.  Thud ! Fine  dust 
sprang  away  from  the  wall. 

Magnus  Ridolph  jumped  to  the  peep-hole, 
in  time  to  glimpse  a hurtling  black  shape,  di- 
rected seemingly  at  his  head.  He  ducked. 
THUD!  Magnus  Ridolph  anxiously  played 
a torch  around  the  interior  of  the  pill-box. 
Should  there  be  a crack — 

He  returned  to  the  peephole.  Suppose  the 
Bounders  brought  a length  of  steel  beam, 
and  used  it  for  a battering-ram?  Probably 
their  powers  of  organization  were  unequal  to 
the  task.  Once  more  he  seated  himself  on  the 
floor,  addressed  himself  to  his  flask.  Present- 
ly he  fell  into  a doze. 

He  awoke  to  find  the  air  hot,  heavy,  pun- 
gent. Red  light  flickered  in  through  the  peep- 
hole, an  ominous  crackling  sound  came  to  his 
ears.  A moment  he  sat  thoughtfully,  while  his 
lungs  demanded  oxygen  from  the  vitiated  at- 
mosphere. He  rose,  looked  forth  into  a red 
and  white  pyre  of  blazing  ticholama.  He  sat 


STARTLING  STORIES 


124 

down  in  the  center  of  the  room,  clear  of  the 
already  warm  concrete. 

“Is  it  my  end,  then,  to  be  fired  like  a piece 
of  crockery  in  a kiln?”  he  asked  himself. 
“No,”  came  the  answer,  “I  shall  undoubted- 
ly suffocate  first.  But,”  he  mused,  “on  sec- 
ond thought — ” 

He  took  his  water  bottle  from  the  knap- 
sack, brought  forth  the  power  pack,  ran  leads 
into  the  water.  He  dialed  up  the  power,  and 
bubbles  of  hydrogen  and  oxygen  vibrated  to 
the  surface.  He  pressed  his  face  to  the  bottle, 
breathed  the  synthetic  atmosphere.  . . . 

Blantham’s  copter  dropped  to  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph’s  landing  and  Blantham  stepped  out, 
spruce  in  dark  gray  and  red.  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph  appeared  in  the  doorway,  nodded. 

“Good  morning,  good  morning,”  Blan- 
tham stepped  forward  jauntily.  “I  dropped 
by  to  tell  you  that  the  harvesters  have  nearly 
finished  on  my  property  and  that  they’ll  be 
ready  for  you  at  the  first  of  the  week.” 
“Excellent,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph 
“A  pity  those  Bounders  have  done  so  much 
damage,”  sighed  Blantham  looking  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  devastated  area.  “Something 
will  have  to  be  done  to  abate  that  nuisance.” 
Magnus  Ridolph  nodded  in  agreement. 

BLANTHAM  inspected  Magnus  Ri- 
dolph. “You’re  looking  rather  tired. 
I hope  the  climate  agrees  with  you  ?” 

“Oh  entirely.  I’ve  been  keeping  rather  ir- 
regular hours.” 

“I  see.  What  are  those  two  domes  out 
in  the  field?  Did  you  have  them  built?” 
Magnus  Ridolph  waved  a modest  hand. 
“Observation  posts,  I suppose  you’d  call 
them.  The  first  was  too  limited,  and  rather 
vulnerable,  in  several  respects,  so  I installed 
the  second  larger  unit.” 

“I  see,”  said  Blantham.  “Well,  I’ll  be  on 
my  way.  Those  Bounders  seem  to  have  got- 
ten pretty  well  into  the  plantation.  Do  you 
still  have  hope  of  a sixty-nine  thousand  munit 
profit  on  the  property?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  permitted  a smile  to  form 
behind  his  crisp  white  beard.  “A  great  deal 
more,  I hope.  My  total  profit  on  our  transac- 
tion should  come  to  well  over  two  hundred 
thousand  munits.” 

Blantham  froze,  his  wide-set  eyes  blue, 
glassy.  “Two  hundred  thousand  munits  ? Are 
you — May  I ask  exactly  how  you  arrive  at 
that  figure?” 

“Of  course,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph  affably. 
“First  of  course  is  the  sale  of  my  harvest. 


Two  thousand  acres  of  good  ticholama,  which 
should  yield  forty-six  thousand  munits.  Sec- 
ond, two  hundred  forty  tons — estimated — of 
raw  resilian,  at  a quarter  munit  a pound,  or 
five  hundred  munits  a ton.  Subtract  freight 
charges,  and  my  profit  here  should  be  well 
over  a hundred  thousand  munits — say  one 
hundred  and  ten  thousand — ” 

“But,”  stammered  Blantham,  his  jowls  red, 
“where  did  you  get  the  resilian?” 

Magnus  Ridolph  clasped  his  hands  behind 
his  body,  looked  across  the  field.  “I  trapped 
a number  of  the  Bounders.” 

“But  how?  Why?” 

“From  their  habits  and  activities,  as  well 
as  their  diet,  I deduced  that  the  Bounders 
were  either  resilian  or  some  closely  allied 
substance.  A test  proved  them  to  be  resilian. 
In  the  last  two  weeks  I’ve  trapped  twenty- 
four  hundred,  more  or  less.” 

“And  how  did  you  do  that?” 

“They  are  curious  and  aggressive  crea- 
tures,” said  Magnus  Ridolph,  and  explained 
the  mechanism  of  his  trap. 

“How  did  you  kill  them?  They’re  like 
iron.” 

“Not  during  the  day  time.  They  dislike 
the  light,  curl  up  in  tight  balls,  and  a sharp 
blow  with  a machete  severs  the  prime  chord 
of  their  nervous  system.” 

Blantham  bit  his  lips,  chewed  at  his  mus- 
tache. “That’s  still  only  a hundred  fifty  or 
sixty  thousand.  How  do  you  get  two  hun- 
dred thousand  out  of  that?” 

“Well,”  said  Magnus  Ridolph,  “I’ll  admit 
the  rest  is  pure  speculation,  and  for  that  rea- 
son I named  a conservative  figure.  I’ll  collect 
a hundred  thirty  thousand  munits  from  you, 
which  will  return  my  original  investment,  and 
I should  be  able  to  sell  this  excellent  planta- 
tion for  a hundred  seventy  or  eighty  thousand 
munits.  My  trapping  expenses  have  been 
twelve  thousand  munits  so  far.  You  can  see 
that  I’ll  come  out  rather  well.” 

Blanthum  angrily  turned  away.  Magnus 
Ridolph  held  out  a hand.  “What’s  your  hur- 
ry ? Can  you  stay  to  lunch.  I admit  the  fare 
is  modest,  only  stew,  but  I’d  enjoy  your  com- 
pany.” 

Blantham  stalked  away.  A moment  later 
his  copter  was  out  of  sight  in  the  green-blue 
sky.  Magnus  Ridolph  returned  inside.  Chook 
raised  his  head.  “Eat  lunch.” 

“As  you  wish.”  Magnus  Ridolph  seated 
himself.  “What’s  this?  Where’s  our  stew ?” 
“Chook  tired  of  stew,”  said  his  cook.  “We 
eat  chili  con  came  now.” 


Fighting  off  fear  and 
disillusionment,  Smith 
bent  over  h«s  wife 


MARIONETTES,  INC. 

By  RAY  BRADBURY 

Braling  and  Smith  sought  vacations  horn  their  wives,  and  they 
almost  succeeded  when  they  heard  about  their  synthetic  selves! 


THEY  walked  slowly  down  the  street 
at  about  ten  in  the  evening,  talking 
quietly,  both  about  thirty-five,  both 
eminently  sober. 

“But  why  so  early?”  said  Smith. 
“Because,”  said  Braling. 

“Your  first  night  out  in  years  and  you  go 
home  at  ten  o’clock.” 

“Nerves,  I suppose.” 

“What  I wonder  is  how  you  ever  managed 
it?  I’ve  been  trying  to  get  you  out  for  ten 
years  for  a quiet  drink.  .And  now,  on  the  one 
night,  you  insist  on  turning  in  early.” 
“Mustn’t  crowd  my  luck,”  said  Braling. 


“What  did  you  do,  put  sleeping  powder  in 
your  wife’s  coffee?” 

“That  would  be  unethical,  no.  You’ll  see 
soon  enough.” 

They  turned  a corner.  “Honestly,  Braling, 
I hate  to  say  this,  but  you  have  been  patient 
with  her.  You  may  not  admit  it  to  me,  but 
marriage  has  been  awful  for  you,  hasn’t  it  ?” 
“I  wouldn’t  say  that.” 

“It’s  got  around,  anyway,  here  and  there, 
how  she  got  you  to  marry  her.  That  time 
back  in  1979  when  you  were  going  to  Rio — ” 
“Dear  Rio,  I never  did  see  it  after  all  my 
plans.” 


125 


STARTLING  STORIES 


126 

“And  how  she  tore  her  clothes  and  rump- 
led her  hair  and  threatened  to  call  the  police 
unless  you  married  her.” 

“She  always  was  nervous.  Smith,  under- 
stand.” 

“It  was  more  than  unfair.  You  didn’t  love 
her.  You  told  her  as  much,  didn’t  you?” 

“I  recall  that  I was  quite  firm  on  the  sub- 
ject.” 

“But  you  married  her  anyhow.” 

“I  had  my  business  to  think  of,  as  well  as 
my  mother  and  father.  A thing  like  that 
would  have  killed  them.” 

“And  it’s  been  ten  years.” 

“Yes,”  said  Braling,  his  gray  eyes  steady. 
"But  I think  perhaps  it  might  change  now. 
I think  what  I’ve  waited  for  has  come  about. 
Look  here.” 

He  drew  forth  a long  blue  ticket. 

"Why,  it’s  a ticket  for  Rio  on  the  Thurs- 
day rocket !” 

“Yes,  I’m  finally  going  to  make  it.” 

“But  how  wonderful,  you  do  deserve  it! 
But  won’t  she  object?  Cause  trouble?” 

BRALING  smiled  nervously.  “She  won’t 
know  I’m  gone.  I’ll  be  back  in  a month 
and  no  one  the  wiser,  except  you.” 

Smith  sighed.  “I  wish  I were  going  with.” 
“Poor  Smith,  your  marriage  hasn’t  exactly 
been  roses,  has  it?” 

“Not  exactly,  married  to  a woman  who 
overdoes  it.  I mean,  after  all,  when  you’ve 
been  married  ten  years,  you  don’t  expect  a 
woman  to  sit  on  your  lap  for  two  hours  every 
evening,  call  you  at  work  twelve  times  a day 
and  talk  baby-talk.  And  it  seems  to  me  that 
in  the  last  month  she’s  gotten  worse.  I won- 
der if  perhaps  she  isn’t  just  a little  simple- 
minded  ?” 

“Ah,  Smith,  always  the  conservative.  Well, 
here’s  my  house.  Now,  would  you  like  to 
know  my  secret  ? How  did  I make  it  out  this 
evening?” 

“Will  you  really  tell?” 

“Look  up,  there!”  said  Braling. 

They  both  stared  up  through  the  dark  air. 
In  the  window  above  them,  on  the  second 
floor,  a shade  was  raised.  A man  about  thir- 
ty-five years  old,  with  a touch  of  gray  at 
either  temple,  sad  gray  eyes,  and  a small  thin 
moustache  looked  down  at  them. 

"Why,  that’s  you\”  cried  Smith. 

“Sh-h-h,  not  so  loud !”  Braling  waved  up- 
ward. The  man  in  the  window  gestured 
significantly  and  vanished. 

“I  must  be  insane,”  said  Smith. 


“Hold  on  a moment.” 

They  waited. 

The  street  door  of  the  apartment  opened 
and  the  tall  spare  gentleman  with  the  mous- 
tache and  the  grieved  eyes  came  out  to  meet 
them. 

“Hello,  Braling,”  he  said. 

“Hello,  Braling,”  said  Braling. 

They  were  identical. 

Smith  stared.  "Is  this  your  twin  brother? 
I never  knew — ” 

“No,  no,”  said  Braling,  quietly.  “Bend 
close.  Put  your  ear  to  Braling  Two’s  chest.” 
Smith  hesitated  and  then  leaned  forward  to 
place  his  head  against  the  uncomplaining 
ribs. 

T ic-tic -tic-tic-tic -tic -tic -tic. 

“Oh  no ! It  can’t  be  1” 

“It  is.” 

“Let  me  listen  again.” 

• T ic-tic -tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic. 

Smith  staggered  back  and  fluttered  his  eye- 
lids, appaled.  He  reached  out  and  touched 
the  warm  hands  and  the  cheeks  of  the  thing. 
" Where ’d  you  get  him?” 

“Isn’t  he  excellently  fashioned?” 
“Incredible.  Where?” 

“Give  the  man  your  card,  Braling  Two.” 
Braling  Two  did  a magic  trick  and  pro- 
duced a white  card : 

MARIONETTES,  INC.  , 

Duplicate  self  or  friends ; new  humanoid-plas- 
tic 1990  models,  guaranteed  against  all  physical 
wear.  From  $7,600  to  our  $15,000  deluxe  model. 

“No,”  said  Smith. 

“Yes,”  said  Braling. 

"Naturally,”  said  Braling  Two. 

“How  long  has  this  gone  on?” 

“I’ve  had  him  for  a month.  I keep  him  in 
the  cellar  in  a tool  box.  My  wife  never  goes 
downstairs,  and  I have  the  only  lock  and  key 
to  that  box.  Tonight,  I said  I wished  to  take 
a walk  to  buy  a cigar.  I went  down  cellar 
and  took  Braling  Two  out  of  his  box  and 
sent  him  back  up  to  sit  with  my  wife  while  I 
came  on  out  to  see  you,  Smith.  ” 

“Wonderful ! He  even  smells  like  you ; 
Bond  Street  and  melachrinos !” 

“It  may  be  splitting  hairs,  but  I think  it 
highly  ethical.  After  all,  what  my  wife  wants 
most  of  all  is  me.  This  Marionette  is  me  to 
the  hairiest  detail.  I’ve  been  home  all  evening. 
I shall  be  home  with  her  for  the  next  month. 
In  the  meantime  another  gentleman  will  be 
in  Rio  after  ten  years  of  waiting.  When  I 
return  from  Rio,  Braling  Two  here  will  go 
back  in  his  box.” 


MARIONETTES.  INC.  137 


SMITH  thought  that  over  for  a minute  or 
two.  “Will  he  walk  around  without 
sustenance  for  a month?”  he  finally  asked. 

“For  six  months  if  necessary,  and  he’s 
built  to  do  everything,  eat,  sleep,  perspire, 
everything,  natural  as  natural  is.  You’ll  take 
good  care  of  my  wife,  won’t  you,  Braling 
Two?” 

“Your  wife  is  rather  nice,”  said  Braling 
Two.  “I’ve  grown  rather  fond  of  her.” 

Smith  was  beginning  to  tremble.  “How 
long  has  marionettes,  inc.  been  in  busi- 
ness?” 

“Secretly,  for  two  years.” 

“Could  I — I mean,  is  there  a possibility 
— ” Smith  took  his  friend’s  elbow  earnestly. 
“Can  you  tell  me  where  I can  get  one,  a ro- 
bot, a marionette,  for  myself?  You  will  give 
me  the  address,  won’t  you?” 

“Here  you  are.” 

Smith  took  the  card  and  turned  it  round 
and  round.  “Thank  you,”  he  said.  “You 
don’t  know  what  this  means.  Just  a little 
respite.  A night  or  so,  once  a month  even. 
My  wife  loves  me  so  much  she  can’t  bear  to 
have  me  gone  an  hour.  I love  her  dearly,  you 
know,  but  remember  the  old  Oscar  Wilde 
poem : ‘Love  will  fly  if  held  too  lightly,  love 
will  die  if  held  too  tightly.’  I just  want  her 
to  relax  her  grip  a little  bit.” 

“You’re  lucky,  at  least,  that  your  wife 
loves  you,  Hate’s  my.problem.  Not  so  easy.” 
“Oh,  Nettie  loves  me  madly.  It  will  be 
my  task  to  make  her  love  me  comfortably.” 
“Good  luck  to  you.  Smith.  Do  drop  around 
while  I’m  in  Rio.  It  will  seem  strange,  if  you 
suddenly  stop  calling  by,  to  my  wife.  You’re 
to  treat  Braling  Two,  here,  just  like  me.” 
“Right!  Good-by.  And  thank  you.” 

Smith  went  smiling  down  the  street.  Bra- 
ling and  Braling  Two  turned  and  walked  in- 
to the  apartment  hall. 

On  the  cross-town  bus,  Smith  whistled 
softly,  turning  the  white  card  in  his  fingers: 

Clients  must  be  pledged  to  secrecy,  for  while 
an  act  is  pending  in  Congress  to  legalize 
MARIONETTES,  INC.,  it  is  still  a felony,  if 
caught,  to  use  one. 

“Well,”  said  Smith. 

Clients  must  have  a mould  made  of  their  body 
and  a color  index  check  of  their  eyes,  lips, 
hair,  skin,  etc.  Clients  must  expect  to  wait  for 
two  months  until  their  model  is  finished. 

“Not  so  long,”  thought  Smith.  “Two 
months  from  now  my  ribs  will  have  a chance 
to  mend  from  the  crushing  they’ve  taken. 
Two  months  from  now  my  hand  will  heal 


from  being  so  constantly  held.  Two  months 
from  now  my  bruised  under-lip  will  begin  to 
reshape  itself.  I don’t  mean  to  sound  ungrate- 
ful. He  flipped  the  card  over: 

MARIONETTES,  INC.  is  two  years  old  and 
has  a fine  record  of  satisfied  customers  behind 
it.  Our  motto  is  “No  Strings  Attached.”  Ad- 
dress: 43  South  Wesley  Drive. 

The  bus  pulled  to  his  stop,  he  alighted,  and 
while  humming  up  the  stairs  he  thought, 
Nettie  and  I have  fifteen  thousand  in  our 
joint  bank  account.  I’ll  just  slip  eight  thou- 
sand out  as  a business  venture,  you  might 
say.  The  Marionette  will  probably  pay  back 
my  money,  with  interest,  in  many  ways.  Net- 
tie needn’t  know.  He  unlocked  the  door  and 
in  a minute  was  in  the  bedroom.  There  lay 
Nettie,  pale,  huge,  and  piously  asleep. 

“Dear  Nettie.”  He  was  almost  over- 
whelmed with  remorse  at  her  innocent  face 
there  in  the  semi-darkness.  “If  you  were 
awake  you  would  smother  me  with  kisses  and 
coo  in  my  ear.  Really,  you  make  me  feel  like 
a criminal.  You  have  been  such  a good,  lov- 
ing wife.  Some  times  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  believe  you  married  me  instead  of  that 
Bud  Chapman  you  once  liked.  It  seems  that 
in  the  last  month  you  have  loved  me  more 
wildly  than  ever  before.” 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
wished  to  kiss  her,  confess  his  love,  tear  up 
the  card,  forget  the  whole  business.  But  as 
he  moved  to  do  this,  his  hand  ached  and  his 
ribs  cracked  and  groaned.  He  stopped,  with 
a pained  look  in  his  eyes,  and  turned  away. 
He  moved  out  into  the  hall  and  through  the 
dark  rooms.  Humming,  he  opened  the  kid- 
ney-desk in  the  library  and  filched  out  the 
bank  book.  “Just  take  eight  thousand  dollars 
is  all,”  he  said.  “No  more  than  that.”  He 
stopped.  “Wait  a minute.” 

E rechecked  the  bank  book  frantically. 
“Hold  on  here!”  he  cried.  “Ten 
thousand  dollars  is  missing!”  He  leaped  up. 
“There’s  only  five  thousand  left ! What’s  she 
done?  What’s  Nettie  done  with  it?  More 
hats,  more  clothes,  more  perfume!  Qr  wait 
— I know!  She  bought  that  little  house  on 
the  Hudson  she’s  been  talking  about  for 
months,  without  so  much  as  a by  your  leave !” 
He  stormed  into  the  bedroom,  righteous 
and  indignant.  What  did  she  mean,  taking 
their  money  like  this?  He  bent  over  her. 
“Nettie!”  he  shouted.  “Nettie,  wake  up!” 
She  did  not  stir.  “What’ve  you  done 
with  my  money!”  he  bellowed. 


STARTLING  STORIES 


128 

She  stirred  fitfully.  The  light  from  the 
street  flushed  over  her  beautiful  cheeks. 

There  was  something  about  her.  His  heart 
throbbed  violently.  His  tongue  dried.  He 
shivered.  His  knees  suddenly  turned  to  wa- 
ter. He  collapsed.  “Nettie,  Nettie !”  he  cried. 
“What’ve  you  done  with  my  money!” 

And  then,  the  horrid  thought.  And  then 
the  terror  and  the  loneliness  engulfed  him. 
And  then  the  fever  and  disillusionment.  For, 
without  desiring  to  do  so,  he  bent  forward 
and  yet  forward  again  until  his  fevered  ear 
was  resting  firmly  and  irrevocably  upon  her 
round  pink  bosom.  “Nettie!”  he  cried. 
Tic-tic -tic- tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic. 
***** 

As  Smith  walked  away  down  the  avenue 
in  the  night,  Braling  and  Braling  Two  turned 
in  at  the  door  to  the  apartment.  “I’m  glad 
he’ll  be  happy,  too,”  said  Braling. 

“Yes,”  said  Braling  Two,  abstractedly. 
“Well,  it’s  the  cellar  box  for  you,  B-Two.” 
Braling  guided  the  other  creature’s  elbow 
down  the  stairs  to  the  cellar. 

“That’s  what  I want  to  talk  to  you  about,” 
said  Braling  Two,  as  they  reached  the  con- 
crete floor  and  walked  across  it.  “The  cellar. 
I don’t  like  it.  I don’t  like  that  tool  box.” 
“I’ll  try  and  fix  up  something  more  com- 
fortable.” 

“Marionettes  are  made  to  move  not  lie 
still.  How  would  you  like  to  lie  in  a box  most 
of  the  time?” 

“Well—” 

“You  wouldn’t  like  it  at  all.  I keep  run- 
ning. There’s  no  way  to  shut  me  off.  I’m 
perfectly  alive  and  I have  feelings.” 

“It’ll  only  be  a few  days  now,  I’ll  be  off  to 
Rio  and  you  won’t  have  to  stay  in  the  box. 
You  can  live  upstairs.” 

Braling  Two  gestured  irritably.  “And 
when  you  come  back  from  having  a good 
time,  back  in  the  box  I go.” 

Braling  said,  “They  didn’t  tell  me  at  the 
Marionette  Shop  that  I’d  get  a difficult  speci- 
men.” 

“There’s  a lot  they  don’t  know  about  us,” 
said  Braling  Two.  “We’re  pretty  new.  And 
we’re  sensitive.  I hate  the  idea  of  you  going 
off  and  laughing  and  lying  in  the  sun  in  Rio 
while  we’re  stuck  here  in  the  cold.” 

“But  I’ve  wanted  that  trip  all  my  life,” 
said  Braling  quietly. 

He  squinted  his  eyes  and  could  see  the  sea 
and  the  mountains  and  the  yellow  sand  and 
the  sound  of  the  waves  was  good  to  his  in- 
ward mind.  The  sun  was  fine  on  his  bared 


shoulders.  The  wine  was  most  excellent. 

“I'll  never  get  to  go  to  Rio,”  said  the  other 
man.  “Have  you  thought  of  that?” 

“No,  I—” 

“And  another  thing.  Your  wife.” 

“What  about  her?”  asked  Braling,  begin- 
ning to  edge  toward  the  door. 

“I’ve  grown  quite  fond  of  her.” 

“I’m  glad  you’re  enjoying  your  employ- 
ment.” Braling  licked  his  lips  nervously. 

“I’m  afraid  you  don’t  understand.  I think 
— I’m  in  love  with  her.” 

BRALING  took  another  step  and  froze. 
“You’re  what?" 

“And  I've  been  thinking,”  said  Braling 
Two.  “How  nice  it  is  in  Rio  and  how  I’ll 
never  get  there  and  I’ve  thought  about  your 
wife  and — I think  we  could  be  very  happy.” 
“T-that’s  nice.”  Braling  strolled  as  casu- 
ally as  he  could  to  the  cellar  door.  “You 
won’t  mind  waiting  a moment,  will  you,  I 
have  to  make  a phone  call.  ” 

“To  whom?”  Braling  Two  frowned. 

“No  one  important.” 

“To  Marionettes  Incorporated?  To  tell 
them  to  come  get  me  ?” 

“No,  no,  nothing  like  that!”  He  tried  to 
rush  out  the  door. 

A metal-firm  grip  seized  his  wrists.  “Don’t 
run !” 

“Take  your  hands  off !” 

“No.” 

“Did  my  wife  put  you  up  to  this?” 

“No.” 

“Did  she  guess  ? Did  she  talk  to  you  ? Does 
she  know?  Is  that  it?”  He  screamed.  A 
hand  clapped  over  his  mouth. 

“You’ll  never  know,  will  you.”  Braling 
Two  smiled  delicately.  “You’ll  never  know.” 
Braling  struggled.  “She  must  have  guessed, 
she  must  have  affected  you !” 

Braling  Two  said,  “I’m  going  to  put  you 
in  the  box,  lock  it,  and  lose  the  key.  Then 
I’ll  buy  another  Rio  ticket  for  your  wife.” 
“Now,  now,  wait  a minute,  hold  on,  don’t 
be  rash,  let’s  talk  this  over !” 

“Good-by,  Braling.” 

Braling  stiffened.  “What  do  you  mean, 
good-by !”  . 

Ten  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Braling  awoke. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  cheek.  Someone  had 
just  kissed  it.  She  shivered  and  looked  up. 
“Why — you  haven't  done  that  in  years,”  she 
murmured. 

“We’ll  see  what  we  can  do  about  that,” 
someone  said. 


“You  won’t  bit  the  moon  unless  you  change  course” 


TlAON^inA  TIME 


By  NOEL  LOOMIS 


Fated  to  miss  the  moon,  a 
rocket-ship's  doomed  to 

be  lost  in  space,  unless — 

BRAMBILLA  was  a big  man  filled 
with  energy,  which  at  this  moment 
he  was  expending  on  Professor 
Smith.  “I  may  say,  Professor,  that  as  a 
member  of  the  board  of  regents  of  U.  S. 

129 


Technological  Institute  I would  feel  it — shall 
we  say  keenly? — if  my  only  son  should  be 
failed  in  one  of  your  classes  ?” 

Professor  Smith  had  no  inclination  to  smile 
at  the  unsubtle  threat.  Smith  was  a young 
man  to  be  a full  professor  in  the  College  of 
Space  Engineering  in  the  finest  technical 
school  on  Earth.  Pie  was  also  a man  of 
calmness  and  dignity  for  his  age,  but  more 
than  that,  he  was  well  aware  that  men’s 


STARTLING  STORIES 


130' 

motivations  sometimes  were  small  in  stature. 

If  a teacher  expected  to  be  head  of  the 
Department  of  Astrogational  Mathematics, 
for  instance,  or  director  of  one  of  the  numer- 
ous research  programs,  he  would  do  well  to 
have  friends  on  the  board  of  regents.  Pro- 
fessor Smith  looked  steadily  across  his 
glasteel  desk  at  the  big  sandy-haired  man 
who  was  trying  to  bulldoze  his  son  through  a 
diploma.  He  did  not  show  how  much  Bram- 
billa’s  threat  had  disturbed  him. 

“It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  your  son  is 
particularly  suited  to  pilot  an  interplanetary 
ship.  Why  didn’t  he  go  into  economics?” 
Smith  almost  said  more  about  Richard 
Brambilla’s  qualifications,  about  the  fact  that 
the  boy  was  much  too  lazy  ever  to  be  an  in- 
terplanetary pilot,  but  he  remembered  Bram- 
billa’s immense  fortune  and  reconsidered. 

"The  field  is  very  small,”  he  said  instead, 
“and  in  the  next  few  years,  when  man 
reaches  past  the  moon  with  his  ships,  then 
certainly  the  field  will  be  limited  to  those  who 
pass  the  most  exhaustive  mental,  physical, 
emotional,  and  philosophical  tests.  On  a fifty- 
million-mile  trip  to  Mars  one  will  want 
everything,  especially  the  pilot,  as  near  per- 
fection as  humanly  possible.” 

Brambilla  ignored  his  words.  “You’ve  got 
a good  job  here,  haven’t  you,  Doc  ?” 

Smith  nodded.  Any  sort  of  instructorship 
with  U.  S.  Tech  carried  great  prestige,  and 
a professorship  was  enough  to  make  one  al- 
most legendary.  Yes,  Professor  Smith  en- 
joyed his  position. 

“Getting  a good  salary?” 

“Adequate,”  Smith  said  dryly. 

“Okay!” 

ABRUPTLY  Brambilla  moved  forward 
to  the  edge  of  his  chair.  He  was  sit- 
ting militarily  erect,  and  his  aggression  and 
self-confidence  impressed  even  Smith.  His 
next  words  were  blunt : 

“Don’t  play  hard  to  get  with  me,  Professor. 
Everybody  knows  you  teachers  have  the 
easiest  jobs  in  the  country.  You  sit  on  your 
rear  end,  and  read  somebody  else’s  book  and 
tell  the  kids  to  learn  it.  You  never  do  any- 
thing constructive.  You  don’t  take  any  part 
in  world  affairs.  You  don’t  make  any  of  the 
decisions  that  run  the  world.” 

Professor  Smith  tried  hard  to  conceal  the 
humiliation  he  felt  at  Brambilla’s  indictment. 
“The  integrity  of  the  teaching  profession — ” 
he  started,  realizing  this  was  a well-worn 
angle  but  feeling  impelled  to  speak. 


"Integrity,  bosh ! You  can  be  had,  just  like 
anybody  else.  ” His  eyes  narrowed  in  a know- 
ing look.  “You’ve  been  had,  Doc.  I know 
about  Freddie  Yonnicks.  You  passed  him 
and  he’s  a pilot  now — but  he  was  failing  in 
one  of  your  courses  and  everybody  knew  it 
Now  listen,  Doc.  You’ve  got  a soft,  easy 
job  and  when  anything  comes  up  you  pass 
the  buck  to  somebody  else.  That’s  why 
you’re  a teacher.”  His  lip  curled  in  simulated 
disgust.  “Sure,  I’ll  make  it  worth  your  while. 
You  pass  Dick  and  you’ll  find  ten  thousand 
dollars  under  your  door  on  Christmas  morn- 
ing. Okay?”  He  rose  and  put  on  his  hat 
with  a firm,  unwasteful  movement. 

Professor  Smith  let  him  go  without  a 
word.  He  sat  for  a moment  at  his  desk,  try- 
ing to  compose  himself  from  the  indignity  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  and  attempting 
to  overcome  the  precipitate  and  severe  de- 
pression into  which  Brambilla  had  plunged 
him. 

It  was  true  that  teachers  were  not  hired 
to  make  decisions.  It  was  their  job  to  train 
the  men  who  would  make  decisions.  But  the 
accusation  hurt,  because  it  implied  that  a 
teacher  was  a spineless  person  who  could  not 
apply  the  things  he  taught. 

Well,  it  was  of  no  use  to  pity  himself.  He 
got  control  of  himself.  The  pressure  eased 
slowly  in  his  throat.  Professor  Smith  got  up 
and  walked  across  the  big  room  to  the  tall 
Gothic  windows.  For  a moment  he  looked  out 
at  the  vast  campus  and  its  many  great  build- 
ings. 

The  College  of  Space  Engineering  alone 
had  twelve  thousand  undergraduates  and 
three  thousand  graduate  students — one  tenth 
of  the  total  in  U.  S.  Tech.  Across  the  auto- 
matic walkway — for  no  vehicles  were  allowed 
on  the  campus — and  across  a small  park  and 
outdoor  aviary,  the  administration  building  of 
the  college  filled  a solid  block  with  its  white 
limestone  bulk,  and  its  thirty  stories  went  al- 
most as  high  as  Professor  Smith’s  office  in 
the  Astrogational  Math  Building. 

Professor  Smith  much  preferred,  he 
thought,  the  spires  and  towers  of  his  build- 
ing to  the  modern  and  perhaps  more  func- 
tional Ad  Hall,  as  the  students  called  it — 
perhaps  because  he  himself  was  tall  and  slim. 

The  professor  sighed  and  turned.  With 
long,  firm  steps  he  went  across  the  floor  to 
the  part  of  his  suite  that  had  been  made  into 
a library  by  enclosure  within  filled  book- 
cases. He  went  through  a passageway 
formed  by  the  cases  and  stepped  onto  a thick 


TURNOVER  TIME 


rug.  A man  in  the  distinctive  deep  blue  uni- 
form of  the  United  Nations’  military  service 
got  up. 

“Sit  down,  General,”  Smith  said. 

General  Osborne,  Chief  of  Staff  for  the 
Interglobal  Defense  Committee,  fixed  his  icy 
blue  eyes  on  Smith.  “You  seem  to  have  your 
own  troubles,  Professor.”  He  shook  his 
grizzled,  bullet-like  head.  “One  would  think 
that  a professor  in  this  school — ” 

“It  isn’t  often  that  this  happens,”  Smith 
said. 

“I  notice  you  didn’t  give  him  an  answer.” 
“No.  I need  some  time.” 

“What  will  you  do?”  Osborne  asked 
curiously. 

“Frankly,  I don’t  know.  Should  I be 
practical  and  consider  my  prestige  and 
economic  position,  or  should  I be  idealistic?” 
“He  talked  about  a Fred  somebody,” 
Osborne  suggested. 

SMITH  accepted  a cigarette  from  the 
general.  “That’s  the  worst  of  it.  I did 
pass  Fred  Yonnicks  in  Rocket  Navigation 
Eight — Fixed  Orbits,  when  I should  not 
have,”  Smith  said.  “Class  of  Nineteen  Sixty- 
six.”  Professor  Smith  blushed  a little.  “To 
tell  the  truth,  Freddie’s  father  passed  me 
some  eighteen  years  ago  when  I was  giving 
too  much  attention  to  the  class  play  and  the 
championship  gym  team  and  the  homecoming 
queen.”  Smith  smiled  wryly.  “I  thought — 
well,  if  there  ever  was  an  excuse,  I had  one. 
Freddie  was  a good  boy — just  suddenly 
began  to  major  in  bowling,  I guess.  But 
now  Brambilla  holds  that  over  me  as  a threat 
and  any  taint  of  anything  is  a threat  to  a 
professorship  in  this  school.” 

“Probably  Freddie  won’t  be  accredited  as 
a full  pilot,”  the  general  said  soothingly. 

Professor  Smith  fixed  his  gray  eyes  on 
the  general.  “On  the  contrary,  Freddie 
last  week  was  promoted  to  pilot  on  the  lunar 
passenger  run.  So  you  see  what  can  happen 
if  Brambilla  starts  talking.”  The  professor 
blew  a rolling  smoke  ring  the  length  of  the 
mahogany  table.  “Well,  General,  let’s  get  to 
your  business.” 

For  a moment  he  heard  the  general  talk- 
ing, but  he  was  really  thinking  about  Bram- 
billa. Perhaps  it  was  possible  that  prudence 
should  overcome  scruples  this  time.  Bram- 
billa had  seemed  determined.  Then  the 
professor’s  mind  became  aware  of  General 
Osborne’s  words: 

“ — not  generally  known,  but  for  twenty 


i3i 

years  we  have  been  receiving  microwave 
messages  from  Mars  at  each  period  of  op- 
position, every  seven  hundred  and  eighty 
days  or  so.  We  never  have  been  able  to  de- 
code them.  Incidentally,  at  each  time  of  op- 
position we  also  have  tried  to  transmit  mes- 
sages to  that  planet.” 

Professor  Smith  looked  up.  “Yes?” 
“This  is  nineteen  seventy-one.  On  August 
twenty-three,  day  after  tomorrow,  Mars  will 
be  the  closest  since  nineteen  fifty-six.  And 
for  the  first  time,  the  fifteen-hundred-centi- 
meter reflector  on  the  moon  is  in  operation.” 
Osborne  paused  impressively. 

“That’s  a fifty-foot  mirror,”  Smith  ob- 
served, and  smiled.  “With  no  air  on  the 
moon  to  interfere,  observation  of  Mars  will 
be  like  watching  your  neighbor  take  a bath 
with  a three-inch  telescope.” 

Osborne  grinned.  “The  staff  at  Lunar 
Observatory  have  had  the  thing  aimed  at 
Mars  for  two  weeks  now,  and  they  have 
gotten  some — well,  interesting  pictures.  They 
have  advised  us  pretty  steadily,  and  last 
week  a batch  of  films  came  in  on  the  Satel- 
lite. Patterson  called  a quick  meeting  of  the 
Interglobal  Defense  Committee,  and  three 
days  later  they  called  me.” 

“What  was  on  the  films?”  Smith  asked 
sharply. 

Osborne  drew  a heavy  breath.  "That  fifty- 
foot  disk  shows  things  pretty  big,  com- 
paratively. There  are  a lot  of  cylindrical- 
shaped objects  on  Mars,  millions  of  them, 
and  they  all  seem  to  move  at  high  speed. 
The  defense  council  is  worried,  more  so  be- 
cause at  this  particular  opposition  there  aren’t 
any  radio  signals.  Some  commmunications 
men  claim  those  signals  didn’t  come  from 
Mars  anyway,  but  nevertheless  we  can’t  be 
reckless  when  the  safety  of  the  whole  earth  is 
involved.” 

“Do  you  consider  that  likely?” 

“Likely  is  a poor  word,  Professor.  I like 
possible  better  myself.  Suppose  there  are  en- 
tities on  Mars  who  have  developed  space- 
travel  to  the  point  where  they  can  send  a 
whole  fleet  across  forty  million  miles  of  ether 
to  Earth:  They’re  probably  two  hundred 
years  ahead  of  us  there — and  why  not  at 
least  that  much  ahead  of  us  in  development 
of  weapons?” 

“To  say  nothing,”  Professor  Smith  added 
soberly,  “of  the  likelihood  that  they  would 
have  no  set  of  moral  values  comparable  to 
ours.” 

“You’re  getting  the  picture.  To  cut  it 


STARTLING  STORIES 


132 

short,  if  those  are  space-ships,  it  means  an 
interplanetary  invasion.  The  defense  council 
has  been  up  nights  for  three  weeks  now,  and 
they  have  decided  it  is  better  to  attack  than 
to  be  attacked.  For  just  one  possibility  out 
of  dozens,  we  don’t  know  what  kind  of  deadly 
diseases  or  viruses  or  what-not  they  might 
bring.” 

“So?”  Professor  Smith  was  fully  alert. 

“So  they  have  ordered  me  to  fire  two  hun- 
dred iron-bombs  at  Mars  from  our  base  on 
the  moon  two  days  from  now.”  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  “Fifty-one  hours,  to  be  exact. 
By  decimal  time,  which  we  use  on  the  moon, 
of  course,  F-hour  is  eighty-one-fifty,  August 
twenty-three.” 

Professor  Smith  shuddered.  “Iron  bombs 
are  something  like  eighty  per  cent  fissionable. 
Two  hundred  would  destroy  any  planet.” 

“That’s  right.  So  I argued.  I figure  it’s 
time  for  men  to  ease  off  from  shooting  first 
and  looking  afterward,  especially  in  the  case 
of  a planet.  I don’t  think  it’s  smart  in  the 
first  place  to  go  starting  an  interplanetary 
war.  These  fellows,  if  they  have  ships  that 
can  reach  earth,  may  also  have  a defense 
against  atomic  bombs,  and  they  might  get 
mad  at  us  for  trying  it.” 

“Very  good  reasoning,”  said  Smith.  “I’m 
glad  you  are  not  in  favor  of  propagating  war 
past  our  global  boundaries  if  it  can  be 
avoided.  ” 

“I’d  like  to  see  a chance  for  peace,  anyway. 
How  do  we  know  that  any  other  species  any- 
where knows  anything  about  fighting?  Man 
might  be  the  only  dominant  fighting  species 
in  the  universe.” 

“Possible,”  observed  Smith.  “Where  do  I 
come  in?” 

Osborne  stood  up.  He  was  a tremendous 
man,  and  when  Smith  watched  him  he 
thought  of  one  word — iron. 

Osborne  said,  “Professor,  I made  a deal 
with  the  committee.  This  is  a touchy  thing, 
you  know.  It’s  not  the  sort  of  thing  the 
public  can  decide.  It  has  to  be  done  by  men 
who  know  their  business.  You’re  the  most 
capable  man  in  the  world  on  interplanetary 
relationships.  You  can  look  at  those  pictures 
and  tell  whether  those  are  space-ships  or 
not.” 

“Smith  gasped. 

“I?” 

“Yes,  you.”  Osborne  smiled.  “You’re  not 
going  to  refuse  to  make  a decision,  are  you?” 
he  said  pointedly. 


“Well,  no,  but—” 

“In  this  field,  you’re  what  Einstein  was 
to  the  field  of  space  and  time.  You  would 
know,  Professor,”  Osborne  continued  ear- 
nestly. “You  are  also  a man  of  undeviating 
honesty.  The  council  will  accept  your  judg- 
ment.” 

Professor  Smith  felt  faint.  “Oh,  no.  They 
can’t  decide  the  fate  of  a world  on  one  man’s 
word.” 

“They’re  going  to.” 

“We’ll  get  a committee!” 

“The  only  two  men  on  earth  qualified  to 
sit  with  you  on  a committee — Nonal  and 
Zine — are  out  of  the  picture.  Nonal  is  on 
the  south  polar  expedition,  and  Doctor  Zine 
is  somewhere  in  his  bathysphere  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Mindanao  Deep  investigating 
the  dispersion  of  hard  radiation.  That  leaves 
you,  Professor.”  The  general  looked  again 
at  his  watch.  This  time  is  was  only  a gesture. 
“We  shall  have  to  leave  New  York  tomor- 
row morning  on  the  Satellite  to  reach  the 
moon  in  time  for  you  to  make  a decision. 
They  want  you  at  the  observatory  by 
Seventy-two  Hundred.  They  will  have  just 
finished  developing  the  close-ups,  and  if  you 
think  they  may  be  space-ships,  we  fire  the 
bombs.  Okay,  Professor?” 

Professor  Smith  arose  to  his  feet.  He 
went  to  a section  of  the  bookcase  and  pressed 
it.  It  turned.  On  the  back  side  was  a shelf 
with  a bottle  of  Scotch  and  some  glasses.  The 
professor  poured  a drink  for  the  general  and 
one  for  himself. 

“This  is  something  I do  most  rarely,”  he 
muttered.  He  tossed  it  down.  “If  I say  they 
are  space-ships,  Earth  will  disintegrate  the 
planet  Mars.  If  I say  they  are  not,  and  they 
should  later  turn  out  to  be  that,  our  own 
planet  might  be  disintegrated.”  He  poured 
another  drink.  “Look,  General,  how  about 
the  public?” 

“The  time  is  short,”  Osborne  pointed  out. 
“I  have  firing  orders.  And  I’ll  say  that  I 
would  consider  it  unwise  at  this  time  to  re- 
lease any  information  on  such  a thing  as 
possible  visitations  from  Mars.  The  public 
is  inclined  to  be  hysterical  when  it  suddenly 
faces  unknown  danger.  No,  Professor,  it  is 
all  up  to  you.  Shall  I pick  you  up  in  the 
morning?” 

ROFESSOR  Smith  repressed  a shiver 
as  he  put  down  the  glass.  “The  Satellite 
will  blast  away  at  seven,  I believe.  How  about 
reservations?” 


TURNOVER  TIME 


“I  have  them,”  said  Osborne,  picking  up 
his  officer’s  cap.  “I’ll  be  by  at  six.  And  by 
the  way,  have  you  ever  made  the  trip  to  the 
moon?” 

Professor  Smith  grinned  engagingly.  “At 
a tenth  of  a cent  per  pound  per  mile,  my 
calculations  indicate  that  a round-trip  to  the 
moon  would  come  to  sixty-five  thousand 
dollars.  And  that,  my  friend,  is  not  the  kind 
of  money  a professor  can  spend  for  luxuries.” 
He  added  wistfully,  “I  always  wanted  to 
ride  one  of  the  rockets,  too.” 

Osborne  nodded.  “Your  baggage  will  be 
gratis,  but  the  limit  is  twenty  pounds.  You 
can  pick  up  special  lightweight  equipment  in 
the  big  store  at  the  field,  if  you  wish.” 

“Thanks,”  said  Smith.  After  Osborne  had 
gone,  he  poured  himself  one  more  drink,  and 
sank  heavily  into  a big  chair.  He  did  not 
want  responsibility  of  that  sort,  but  he  saw 
no  immediate  way  of  avoiding  it.  With  firing 
orders  already  issued,  it  would  be  a gross  act 
of  negligence  for  him  to  refuse  to  give  an 
opinion. 

Also,  he  knew  how  touchy  the  U.  N.  com- 
mittees were.  He  could  appreciate,  without 
being  told,  how  hard  Osborne  must  have 
argued  for  even  this  concession,  and  he  knew 
that  the  least  indication  of  confusion  on  his 
part  would  upset  it.  But  he  wished  he  could 
have  been  picked  for  something  else,  because 
Astrographic  Interpretation  or  the  reading  of 
extra-terran  photographs  was  the  one  course 
Professor  Smith  had  slighted  in  his  under- 
graduate days ; that  was  the  course  in  which 
Professor  Yonnicks,  eighteen  years  before, 
had  been  affected  by  Smith’s  personal  mag- 
netism and  had  given  him  a passing  grade 
without  Smith’s  earning  it. 

Glumly  Smith  wondered  if  a man’s  small- 
est missteps  invariably  required  an  account- 
ing. It  was  considerably  too  late  to  wish  he 
had  worked  harder  under  Yonnicks.  What 
he  had  to  do  now  was  figure  out  some  way 
to  give  an  intelligent  answer.  . . . 

The  rocket  terminal  at  6 :30  a.m.  was  like 
any  airport — a big  area  paved  with  concrete 
and  fenced  in  with  steel.  A group  of  build- 
ings was  at  the  entrance,  and  hundreds  of 
persons  rushed  importantly  from  one  place  to 
another,  pursued  by  a raucous  agglomeration 
of  sound  from  horns,  bells,  and  loud-speak- 
ers. 

He  was  deeply  impressed,  however,  by 
the  Satellite,  a giant  ship,  sleek  and  shiny  in 
beryllium  and  magnesium,  poised  in  her  great 
launching-rack  in  the  center  of  the  field.  To 


133 

be  truthful,  he  was  overwhelmed.  He  was 
about  to  see  in  action  the  things  he  had 
taught  for  eight  years.  He  applied  for  and 
received  one  of  the  pamphlets  listing  technical 
details  of  the  ship.  While  General  Osborne 
took  care  of  the  tickets,  Smith  went  through 
the  leaflets. 

As  atomic  power  was  still  inapplicable  to 
rocket  propulsion,  liquid  fuels  were  used, 
and  that  fact  was  the  reason  for  the  high  im- 
portance of  Smith’s  subject,  Orbits  and  Tra- 
jectories. The  passenger  limit  for  this  ship 
was  thirty-one  thousand  pounds — approxi- 
mately two  hundred  persons.  And  after  bag- 
gage, and  supplies  for  the  ship,  were  loaded, 
there  would  be  a margin  of  exactly  two  point 
one  per  cent  of  the  weight  of  ship  and  fuel 
available  for  carrying  new  equipment  for  the 
Lunar  Observatory. 

Smith  explained  to  Osborne  as  they  were 
standing  in  the  weighing-in  line,  why  exact 
weights  were  important. 

A SPACE-SHIP  was  loaded  with  enough 
fuel  to  accelerate  to  escape-velocity, 
plus  the  amount  required  for  the  mid-point 
turnover,  plus  one  hundred  gallons  reserve. 

“After  we  reach  escape-velocity,  we  coast. 
At  exactly  the  point  where  gravitational  at- 
traction is  equal  between  earth  and  moon,  we 
make  the  turnover.  That  is,  we  change  ends. 
This  is  so  the  end  that  holds  the  rockets  will 
be  presented  to  the  surface  of  the  moon  for 
a braking  effect  in  landing.  It  takes  a good 
deal  less  weight  and  therefore  less  fuel  to  do 
it  that  way  than  it  would  take  to  install  a set 
of  blasting  tubes  on  the  front  end.” 

“But  why,”  asked  Osborne,  “is  the  exact 
turnover  time  important?  The  direction  and 
velocity  is  all  calculated  before  we  leave,  isn’t 
it,  so  we  shall  hit  the  moon?” 

“Yes,  provided  turnover  takes  place  at  the 
exact  given  time,  because  the  effect  of  the 
turnover  blasts  on  the  ship’s  speed  must  be 
considered.  Exact  weight,  velocities,  time, 
and  direction — all  are  vital  to  the  computa- 
tion.” 

“What  happens  if  something  goes 
wrong?” 

“An  error  in  turnover  time  by  a few 
seconds,  without  a compensating  adjustment, 
would  mean  our  missing  the  moon’s  gravi- 
tational field.  The  ship  must  come  very 
close,  to  be  influenced  by  the  moon’s  mass. 
We  go  into  an  orbit  around  the  moon  while 
we  cut  down  speed  with  rocket  blasts  and 
interactors  with  the  moon’s  gravitational 


STARTLING  STORIES 


134 

forces,  but  it  takes  almost  as  much  fuel  to 
reduce  our  speed  as  it  takes  to  build  it  up  in 
the  first  place. 

“Now,  obviously  in  astrogation  a pilot 
can’t  sit  there  and  guide  his  ship  to  the  moon 
by  sight.  It  must  all  be  done  by  mathematics. 
One  full  blast  on  the  rockets  would  consume 
several  hundred  pounds  of  fuel,  and  if  he 
should  carry  enough  fuel  to  allow  for  seat-of 
the-pants  maneuvering,  he  wouldn’t  have  any 
room  for  a pay  load.  So  here’s  the  thing  in 
a nutshell : the  margin  allowable  for  a pay 
load  anyway  is  very  small — something  like 
four  per  cent  all  told — which  makes  it  im- 
possible to  allow  a safety  margin  of  fuel  for 
a ship  which  misses  the  moon.  The  moon’s 
gravity  must  be  used.  If  the  ship  goes  by  the 
moon  outside  of  a certain  limit,  it  will  go  into 
outer  space  and  coast  forever,  because  the 
pilot  has  barely  enough  fuel  to  stop  the  ship, 
to  say  nothing  of  getting  it  back  and  landing 
it.” 

“It  sounds  like  a ticklish  proposition,” 
Osborne  said  soberly. 

“It  is,”  the  professor  assured  him. 

In  a big  room  they  were  weighed,  their 
baggage  weighed — to  the  ounce — and  passed 
through  a gate.  “That’s  Patterson  up  ahead 
there,”  Osborne  whispered,  and  Smith 
looked  as  soon  as  he  could,  seeing  a white- 
haired,  vigorous-looking  man  with  a big 
briefcase.  “He’ll  be  with  you,”  said  Osborne, 
“all  the  time,  probably.” 

It  gave  Smith  a sinking  feeling,  which  was 
partially  relieved  a moment  later  when  the 
last  man  in  the  line,  number  two  hundred, 
was  refused  passage  because  he  would  have 
made  the  ship  twenty-eight  pounds  over- 
weight. 

Smith  was  impressed  to  see  that  space 
navigation  was  as  exacting  as  he  always  had 
taught  it  should  be. 

The  Satellite  stood  on  her  tail,  and  the 
passengers  climbed  a long  magnesium  stair 
in  the  center  of  the  ship  to  the  lounge,  which 
was  just  above  the  midship  section.  Above — 
or  forward,  Professor  Smith  noted.  It  was  a 
little  queer  to  see  how  quickly  the  usual 
designations  of  space  became  meaningless. 
The  takeoff  was  easy.  Compressed  air 
launched  them,  and  when  the  jets  took  over 
there  was  a moment  of  sickishness  but  no 
noise.  It  seemed  almost  at  once  that  they 
began  to  float.  Professor  Smith  drew  a grate- 
ful breath  and  relaxed. 

They  were  coasting  free  at  twenty-five 
thousand  miles  an  hour. 


OSBORNE  introduced  him  to  Patterson. 

The  white-haired,  square-faced  presi- 
dent of  the  Interglobal  Defense  Committee 
was  blunt. 

“No,  we  don’t  know  that  any  other  sen- 
tient species  is  belligerent — and  on  the  other 
hand  they  might  be  nothing  but  a fighting 
machine.  We  can’t  take  a chance.  If  there  is 
any  reasonable  doubt,  the  order  to  fire  will 
stand.  After  all,  gentlemen,  we  are  dis- 
cussing the  safety  of  the  earth.  The  answer  i3 
up  to  you,  Professor  Smith,  and  only  be- 
cause we  on  the  committee  are  honestly 
divided.  We  don’t  know.  You  will.  All  I 
have  to  say  is  that  we  cannot  afford  a mis- 
take." 

He  turned  his  piercing  eyes  on  Smith, 
who  said  carefully,  “We’ll  see,”  while  at  the 
same  time  lie  was  inwardly  tense.  Why  must 
they  put  a poor  teacher  on  the  tightest  spot 
in  Earth’s  history?  Osborne  seemed  to  read 
his  thoughts. 

“You  are  a teacher,”  he  said  gravely. 
“You  are  accustomed  to  viewing  things 
objectively  and  giving  an  unbiased  opinion. 
We  are  willing  to  depend  on  you.” 

The  weight  of  that  responsibility  became 
depressing.  Brambilla  had  been  right.  Teach- 
ers did  not  make  decisions.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  they  were  not  tempermentally  suited 
for  it.  Perhaps  that  was  why  they  were 
teachers. 

Patterson  did  not  help.  “You  will  have  to 
use  a magnifying  glass  to  examine  the 
pictures,”  he  said.  “Our  best  estimate  is  that 
the  objects  are  in  the  nature  of  a thousand 
feet  in  length,  and  even  the  six-hundred-inch 
reflector  on  the  moon  could  not  see  that 
small  an  object  thirty-four  million  miles 
away  if  it  were  not  for  the  nucleonic  screens 
and  the  new  cosmic-ray  photos,  something 
like  radar  plus  a radical  new  fine-grained 
film  that  will  record  anything  the  mirror  can 
see.” 

Professor  Smith  excused  himself.  He 
needed  to  be  alone.  To  recover  his  inner 
composure  he  went  to  the  chart-room  and 
examined  the  posted  figures.  He  began  to 
jot  them  down.  Here  was  a real  problem  in 
turnover  time,  with  the  fate  of  two  worlds 
hinging  on  it.  He  sat  down  and  calculated. 

Presently  his  figures  indicated  that  turn- 
over time  would  come  at  exactly  64:21:45, 
decimal  time.  He  checked  his  space  watch, 
a present  from  the  class  of  ’60,  with  the  ship 
chronometer,  which  was  marked  off  in  terns 
and  centitems  and  millitems,  then  sat  back 


TURNOVER  TIME 


complacently  to  await  turnover  time.  This 
was  familiar  ground.  For  the  first  time  since 
Osborne’s  visit,  Professor  Smith  had  to 
admit  that  he  was  getting  what  the  under- 
graduates might  once  have  called  a “large 
charge”  out  of  the  trip. 

At  64:10  he  looked  at  his  watch.  At 
64:20  he  braced  himself,  but  the  warning 
light  did  not  flash  until  64:46. 

The  turnover  itself  was  gentle.  The  Satel- 
lite swung  in  a big  arc,  and  centrifugal  force 
was  nicely  used ; only  one  glass  of  water,  on 
the  edge  of  a table,  was  spilled.  But  Smith 
was  worried.  He  checked  his  calculations. 
They  were  correct.  He  went  back  to  the 
chart-room  and  checked  the  data.  That  too 
was  correct.  Smith’s  chest  began  to  tighten. 
Twenty-five  centitems  was  plenty  to  make 
them  either  crash  or  miss.  In  this  case  it 
would  be  a miss ! 

He  stopped  the  first  officer  and  asked  him 
if  the  posted  data  was  accurate.  The  officer 
said  it  was,  even  to  the  name  of  the  pilot. 
“New  pilot  this  trip,”  he  noted.  Professor 
Smith  read  the  placard  in  the  lower  right 
corner  of  the  bulletin  board  and  went  cold. 
The  sign  said,  “Pilot,  Frederick  H.  Yon- 
nicks.” 

Professor  Smith  sat  down.  He  was  sud- 
denly too  weak  to  stand,  even  in  the  mild' 
artificial  gravity  of  the  ship.  Freddie  Yon- 
nicks,  the  boy  who  had  slighted  Fixed  Orbits 
and  Trajectories.  Presently  Smith  arose  and 
went  to  the  captain’s  cabin,  showed  his 
identification,  and  secured  permission  to  visit 
Freddie.  He  went  down  the  magnesium 
ladder  and  found  Freddie  sitting  comfortably 
in  a nitrofoam  chair  watching  the  mass  of 
blinking  lights  and  wavering  dials,  and  the 
growing  reflection  of  the  moon  in  a ground 
glass  screen. 

FREDDIE  shook  hands  with  a glad  smile. 

He  invited  the  professor  to  sit  down  and 
showed  him  all  the  gadgets,  including  the 
new  differential  calculator,  the  one  item  with 
which  the  professor  was  not  familiar.  Freddie 
remembered  the  time  when  the  professor  had 
taken  the  entire  class  for  a “ride”  in  the, 
trainer  and  one  rocket-firing  button  had 
gotten  stuck.  The  trainer  had  turned  com- 
pletely over  and  they  had  all  slid  around  the 
walls  and  ceiling  until  the  professor  oriented 
himself  long  enough  to  punch  the  deactivator 
button. 

“You’d  have  made  a good  pilot,  Pro- 
fessor.” Freddie  said  warmly. 


135 

Professor  Smith  thanked  him,  thinking 
that  without  doubt  this  was  the  glamorous 
end  of  the  profession.  He  even  envied 
Freddie  just  a trifle.  The  assistant  pilot  went 
off  duty,  and  Professor  Smith  said  casually, 
“How  do  you  figure  turnover  time?” 
Freddie  looked  at  him  curiously.  “Why, 
just  the  way  you  taught  me.” 

“You  didn’t  learn  how  to  do  that  in  my 
class.”  Smith  was  fighting  to  keep  his  voice 
level. 

Freddie  grinned.  “We  have  the  electronic 
brain  here  that  does  it  quicker  and  better.” 
“You  surely  check  it  manually.” 

“Well,  no — I don’t.” 

Professor  Smith  swallowed  hard.  “You 
mean  you  left  it  all  up  to  the  calculator?” 
“Sure.”  Freddie  began  to  be  a little  de- 
fensive. 

“May  I see  the  readings  on  the  instru- 
ments?” 

“Yes,  I guess  so.”  Freddie  was  a little 
doubtful  but  he  showed  Smith  the  tape,  and 
for  the  next  hour  the  professor  calibrated 
speed,  azimuth,  declension,  weight,  time, 
and  acceleration.  Then  with  the  Astronautic 
Guide  he  checked  the  position  of  the  moon 
against  the  arrival  time  of  the  Satellite. 
When  he  finally  looked  up  at  Freddie,  his 
face  was  taut. 

“You  delayed  turnover  for  twenty-five 
centitems.  When  you  reach  rendezvous  point, 
the  moon  will  be  far  past  it.  At  your  present 
azimuth” — He  looked  at  the  thin,  slowly 
wavering  band  of  sodium  light  projected 
against  a calibrated  scale — “you’re  off  course 
about  fifteen  Angstroms.” 

Freddie’s  eyes  began  to  narrow.  “Are  you 
telling  me  I don’t  know  how  to  hit  the 
moon  ?” 

Smith  said  sharply,  “I’m  telling  you  you 
won’t  hit  it  unless  you  change  course.  And 
that  must  be  done  quickly.  The  angulation  is 
constantly  increasing.” 

Freddie  licked  his  lips  nervously.  Then  he 
said,  “Professor,  if  we’re  off  course,  that’s 
my  job.” 

But  Smith  was  insistent.  “You  are  off 
course,  and  within  a matter  of  half  an  hour 
it  will  be  too  late  to  correct  it.” 

Freddie’s  jaw  set.  “I  must  ask  you  to 
leave,  Professor,  if  you  are  going  to  inter- 
fere.” 

The  professor  leaned  forward.  His  eyes 
were  almost  hypnotic  in  their  intensity. 
“Freddie,  has  your  experience  in  the  Space 
Service  taught  you  to  have  respect  for  me 


STARTLING  STORIES 


136 

as  a teacher?” 

“Yes,  of  course,  but — ” 

“Then  I’m  telling  you  now  that  you  are 
off  course!  Set  that  problem  up  on  the 
calculator  again.” 

Freddie  began  to  look  pretty  sober.  He 
tried  the  calculator,  and  this  time  he  swore 
soundly  when  the  result  came  out  different. 
Smith  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  new 
result  agreed  with  his  own.  Freddie  began 
to  turn  haggard. 

“What  shajl  I do  now?” 

“As  soon  as  you  get  back  to  Earth  you  will 
come  to  my  office  for  a private  course  in 
Fixed  Orbits  and  Trajectories,  but  for  the 
present,  do  what  I tell  you.” 

By  now  Freddie  was  thoroughly  scared. 
At  Smith’s  direction,  he  fired  two  bursts 
from  the  No.  1"  port  rocket.  The  light- 
calibrator  swung  sixteen  Angstroms  and 
settled.  Then  at  Smith’s  direction,  he  fired 
a quarter-burst  from  the  No.  2 starboard  jet, 
and  they  settled  down  to  wait. 

By  the  time  the  assistant  pilot  returned, 
the  Satellite  was  quite  plainly  in  an  orbit 
about  the  moon. 

THEY  flashed  over  Goddard  Point  in 
the  middle  of  the  Mare  Tranquilitatis, 
with  its  cluster  of  huge  other-world  domes. 
Four  times  over.  On  the  fifth  run,  Freddie 
gave  a series  of  reverse  bursts.  The  angle  of 
decline  was  on  the  red  line. 

The  receiving  cushion  on  the  pock-marked 
surface  of  the  moon  looked  like  a pin-point. 
The  golden  ball  danced  up  and  down,  left 
and  right,  back  on  the  cross-hairs.  Forward 
velocity  was  low.  The  cushion  came  up. 
The  Satellite  hit  with  a jar.  The  pneumatic 
cushions  took  the  first  shock,  then  the 
hydraulics  picked  it  up  and  the  Satellite 
settled  like  a feather. 

Professor  Smith  shook  hands  with  Fred- 
die, who  was  fervently  grateful,  and  left.  As 
he  went  down  the  ladder,  almost  floating 
from  his  less  than  thirty  pounds  of  moon- 
weight,  the  tension  left  him  and  he  felt  limp. 
The  knowledge  of  what  he  still  had  to  face 
began  to  smother  him,  but  he  found  Osborne 
and  Patterson  and  they  joined  the  passengers 
going  down  the  ladder. 

At  the  ground  level,  they  stepped  out  onto 
the  surface  of  the  moon,  but  they  were  under 
a great  dome  of  plastiglass  that  now  covered 
the  ship  and  contained  oxygen  and  heat. 
They  walked  under  a broad  plastic  canopy 
to  the  dormitory. 


Yes,  this  was  the  moon.  They  actually 
were  on  another  planet,  but  Professor  Smith 
was  so  weighed  down  with  the  responsibility 
to  be  given  him  the  next  day  that  he  was 
unable  to  be  thrilled.  And  he  slept  poorly 
all  night,  beating  old,  forgotten  paths  of 
knowledge  for  some  clue,  some  remembrance, 
or  some  reasoning  that  would  give  an  answer 
to  the  problem. 

At  seventy-one-fifty,  decimal  time,  he  was 
called  to  the  photographic  laboratory  of  the 
huge  fifty-foot  reflector.  Mr.  Patterson  met 
him  with  a thick  stack  of  negatives  and  as 
many  prints.  Patterson  himself  looked 
strained  and  weary. 

“The  launching  racks  have  orders  to  fire 
two  hundred  bombs  at  eighty-one-fifty,”  he 
said.  “That’s  about  two  and  a half  hours. 
I’ll  leave  you  here.  Press  the  button  when 
you  come  to  a decision.” 

Professor  Smith  was  suddenly  almost 
frantic.  “I  can’t — ” 

“Never  mind,”  said  Patterson.  “I  know 
it’s  tough,  but  we  didn’t  ask  for  it  either, 
you  know.  Go  ahead.  We  trust  you  im- 
plicitly. And  of  course  all  you  can  do  is 
your  best.”  He  left  quietly,  his  rubber  heels 
making  no  noise  on  the  wide  silent  reaches 
of  the  composition  floor. 

Professor  Smith  looked  up  at  the  high 
ceiling.  It  was  a very  high  ceiling.  He 
looked  at  the  stack  of  negatives.  He  reached 
for  the  first  print  and  focused  it  under  a 
magnifier.  Yes,  he  saw  the  spots — hordes  of 
them.  But  they  were  so  small.  How  could 
anybody  tell  what  they  were?  If  those  were 
space-ships,  there  were  enough  to  blow  the 
earth  apart.  If  they  weren’t — How  could  he 
tell?  He  looked  at  the  tiny  dots  and  got 
cold  feet.  How  could  they  expect  him  to 
make  a decision  like  that?  What  could  he 
base  it  on  ? 

“Hi,  Professor!”  said  Freddie  Yonnicks’ 
voice.  “Thought  I saw  you  come  in  here.  I 
sneaked  in  past  the  guard,  myself.  I just 
found  your  book  on  Fixed  Orbits  and  Tra- 
jectories in  the  library.  Now,  in  Chapter 
Four  here,  where  it  talks  about  ellipses  and 
hyperbolas,  it  says  the  ellipse  is  the  cheap- 
est way  from  a standpoint  of  fuel,  but  the 
hyperbola  is  the  quickest — Professor,  is 
something  wrong?” 

The  professor  blinked.  “No-no.  No,  not 
at  all.”  He  suddenly  seemed  to  awaken  and 
become  very  business-like.  “I’ve  just  thought 
of  something,  Freddie.  I know  what’s  puz- 
zling you — how  to  balance  the  expense  of 


TURNOVER  TIME 


137 


fuel  against  the  expense  of  time,  and  I think 
I can  explain  that  better  than  I did  in  the 
book.  But  right  at  the  moment  I am  very 
busy.  Could  you  meet  me  at  the  library, 
say,  in  an  hour  or  so?” 

"Sure.  I’ll  see  you  there.”  Freddie  left, 
while  Professor  Smith  glanced  at  a couple 
of  the  prints.  Then  he  smiled  and  pressed 
the  bell-button.  Certainly  he  could  make  a 
decision.  He  had  made  one  on  the  ship.  So 
had  Freddie  made  one.  He  could  make  one 
now,  especially  now  that  he  knew. 


AT  EIGHTY-ONE  Hundred  Professor 
Smith  was  talking  to  the  white-haired 
Gilbert  Patterson,  the  iron-framed  General 
Osborne,  and  their  staffs. 

“These  are  not  space-ships,”  Professor 
Smith  said  positively.  “The  mechanics  of 
space-travel  eliminate  that  possibility.”  The 
stiffness  went  out  of  Gilbert  Patterson  sud- 
denly, and  he  looked  old  and  tired  but  re- 
lieved. 

“In  the  first  place,”  Smith  said,  “it  is  un- 
likely that  the  Martians  have  developed 
space-travel  more  than  just  enough  to  reach 
Earth,  or  we  should  have  had  a visit  from 
them  already.  In  the  second  place,  at  such 
a stage  of  development  they  would  find  it 
essential  to  conserve  fuel.  In  the  third  place, 
even  by  hyperbolic  orbit  the  trip  from  Mars 
to  Earth  would  require  somewhere  around 
ninety  days — I haven’t  the  exact  figures.  At 
the  start  of  the  trip  Earth  would  be  a quarter 
of  its  orbit  ahead  of  Mars  in  going  around 
the  sun ; the  ships  would  shoot  past  the  sun 
to  meet  Earth  three  months  later,  and  by  that 
time  Earth  would  be  still  farther  ahead  be- 
cause Earth  moves  faster.  So  you  see,  gentle- 
men, the  physical  impracticability  of  the  two 
planets’  being  together  when  Mars  dispatches 
her  ships.  There  can  be  no  immediate  dan- 

J) 

ger. 

“What  do  you  mean — immediate?” 

“The  danger  would  come  three  months 
from  now.” 


“We  could  fire  the  bombs  now  and  catch 
them  before  they  could  dispatch  their  fleet,” 
Osborne  said  thoughtfully. 

“We’re  not  in  position  now.  Celestial 
mechanics  will  show  that  from  Earth  to 
Mars,  the  quickest  orbit  is  available  when  we 
are  about  one  third  of  the  circle  behind 
Mars.  To  be  quite  vulgar,  gentlemen,  you 
can’t  get  there  from  here.  And  anyway,” 
he  said  more  quietly,  "they  are  not  space- 
ships.” 


“They  moved  at  high  speed,”  said 
Osborne. 

“No,  they  move  at  very  low  speeds.  That’s 
what  fooled  us,  just  as  the  spokes  of  a 
wheel  traveling  at  a certain  speed  appear  to 
turn  backward  in  the  tri-dimensional  movies. 
If  we  assume  the  high  speeds  these  objects  at 
first  indicate,  we  must  also  assume  that  any 
ship  of  any  possible  metal,  even  pure  beryl- 
lium, which  is  heavier  only  than  hydrogen, 
helium,  and  lithium,  would  acquire  too  much 
kinetic  energy  to  change  course  as  these 
objects  do. 

“No,  gentlemen,  the  speed  has  to  be  low, 
and  even  then,  the  only  sort  of  object  that 
could  do  that  would  be  an  insect  of  some  sort, 
very  light,  and  at  Mars’  gravity,  about  one 
third  of  Earth  gravity,  it  might  be  possible 
for  insects  to  grow  to  enormous  size.  We 
do  not  know  what  conditions  there  are  on 
Mars  to  either  facilitate  or  retard  such  a 
development,  but  in  my  opinion,  gentlemen, 
these  are  huge  beetles!” 

Gilbert  patterson  was  very 

pleased,  but  General  Osborne  looked 
speculative.  “What  about  the  people  on 
Mars?” 

"I  think  it  is  rather  obvious,”  said  Smith, 
“that  these  are  the  ‘people’  of  Mars.  They’re 
highly  specialized  or  they  wouldn’t  have 
developed  such  light  bodies.  They  must  dig 
the  canals  with  mandibles,  they  undoubtedly 
have  developed  a means  of  sending  electro- 
magnetic signals  from  their  antennae.  Why 
is  it  so  astonishing,  gentlemen  ? Did  you  ex- 
pect something  familiar?” 

“Well,  what  do  you  know !”  said  Osborne. 
"Okay,”  said  Patterson.  “Thanks,  Pro- 
fessor.” He  turned  to  Osborne.  “Cancel 
Firing  Order  One  Hundred.” 

“You’re  entirely  welcome,”  said  Professor 
Smith.  “And  now  if  you  will  excues  me, 
gentlemen,  I have  to  meet  a former  pupil  of 
mine  to  discuss  old  times.” 

He  strode  out  tall  and  slim  and  self-posses- 
sed. He  seemed  to  be  a very  decisive  man. 
And  he  was.  He  was  going  to  coach  Freddie. 
He  was  going  to  fill  in  his  own  education 
with  a post-graduate  course  in  Astrographic 
Interpretation  under  Freddie’s  father,  and  he 
was  going  to  fail  Richard  Brambilla  in 
Celestial  Mechanics  Four.  With  his  new 
consciousness  of  the  power  to  make  decisions, 
he  wasn’t  afraid  of  Brambilla.  There  were 
things  more  significant  than  salary  or 
position. 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 

(Continued  from  page  10) 


stations — highly  insulated  outposts  close  to 
the  star  of  our  planet. 

It  is  also  a world  of  intrigue,  of  incredible 
and  sophisticated  cruelty,  a world  at  war 
inescapably  with  itself  beneath  the  uneasy 
surface  of  peace  and  security,  a world  grown 
so  unwieldy  that  only  the  most  centralized 
systems  of  power  are  capable  of  administer- 
ing it. 

Alar — scientist  and  “thief” — is  the  central 
figure  of  FLIGHT  INTO  YESTERDAY  and 
becomes,  as  the  story  progresses,  the  pivotal 
figure  of  the  Earth  upon  which  he  moves. 
And  although  he  is  well  aware  of  the  fact 
that  he  is  being  sheltered  and  prepared  for 
some  crucial  tilt  with  destiny,  he  knows  not 
who  he  is  nor  what  role  he  is  fated  to  play 
in  the  human  comedy  unfolding  about  him 
with  terrifying  speed. 

He  is  a man  walking  a tightrope  whose 
nature  he  does  not  understand  above  abysses 
whose  depth  he  cannot  pierce,  walking  from 
a cliff  he  can  no  longer  see  toward  a des- 
tination whose  nature  he  cannot  guess.  Vain-, 
ly  he  seeks  counsel — from  the  professors  who 
have  befriended  him,  from  his  fellow 
“thieves,”  from  the  wife  of  the  autocratic 
Haze-Gaunt  who  had  apparently  slain  her 
first  husband,  great  Scientist  Kennicot  Muir. 

They  cannot  give  him  the  answers — for 
they  know  them  not.  He  must  seek  out  his 
own  strange  powers,  his  stranger  destiny, 
which  is  without  end.  And  in  his  search  he 
becomes  part  of  a story  so  different  from 
the  ordinary  run  of  science,  fiction,  so  im- 
plicity  hung  with  suspense  and  color  and  the 
excitement  of  human  beings  in  crisis,  that  its 
very  fabric  glows  with  interest. 

Charles  L.  Harness  may  be  a new  name 
to  science  fiction  but  he  is  destined  to  be  re- 
membered as  long  as  science  fiction  is  read. 
Let  it  be  said  now  that  he  is  a very  real 
person,  who  lives  in  Stamford,  Connecticut 
and  wears  glasses  and  spends  his  days  work- 
ing as  an  attorney  for  the  American  Cyani- 
mid  Company.  He  is  not  a pseudonym  for 
anyone. 

For  our  Hall  of  Fame  Classic  we  have  re- 
surrected a novelet  of  a dozen  years  ago 
which  is  still  remembered  fondly  by  fans  and 
general  readers  alike — CONQUEST  OF 
LIFE  by  EandO  Binder.  It  is  the  story  of 
Anton  York,  who  discovered  the  secret  of 


immortality,  only  to  have  it  almost  perverted 
to  savagely  selfish  ends  by  a trusted  assist- 
ant. 

It  is  a grand  story  in  the  old-school — with 
sweep  of  space  and  danger  and  humanity 
threatened  by  interests  it  can  never  under- 
stand. 

It  is  the  Binder  brothers  at  their  very  best 
— which  should  be  enough  said  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

Willy  Ley’s  second  article  on  the  road  to 
space  travel,  THE  NEXT  TWELVE  YEARS, 
will  also  be  a feature  of  the  May  issue,  along 
with  a crop  of  short  stories  culled  from  an 
inventory  that  includes  Bradbury,  Leinster, 
Gallun,  Temple,  Simak,  Loomis,  Kuttner 
and  Fitzgerald.  And  Rene  LaFayette  will  be 
present  with  the  next  tale  in  his  future  his- 
tory series  on  the  conquest  of  space. 

May  will  be  very  warm  for  STARTLING 
STORIES. 


LETTERS,  letters,  letters!  And  just  to 
make  it  tougher,  the  crop  appears  to  be 
rather  more  interesting  than  usual.  So  let 
us  away.  First,  a couple  of  postcards  from 
which  anyone  who  chooses  may  draw  his  or 
her  own  conclusions.  The  authors  evidently 
did — and  speaking  of  authors,  the  first  is 
from  one  of  our  abler  and  younger  con- 
tributors. 

HALLELUJAH! 

by  James  Blish 

Dear  Editor:  Not  only  do  you  have  van  Vogt  at  last, 
but  I think  you  got  the  best  vV  yam  I have  seen  in 
some  time.  “Dormant”  is  a terrific  job.  There’s  a 
large  body  of  vV’s  work  that  I don't  like,  but  this 
one  has  a tremendous  wallop. — Staten  Island,  New 
York. 

And  then  this  one — 

FALLING  GLASS 

by  Joseph  R.  Rhoden  Jr. 

Editor:  Just  a little  note  to  advise  you  that  the  No- 
vember ish  of  SS  is  the  VERY  best  ish  which  I've 
read.  But  A.  E.  van  Vogt  wasn’t  up  to  his  usual  high 
standard. — 1244  North  Dearborn  Street,  Chicago  10. 
Illinois. 


138 


Perhaps  the  feeling  is  sectional — no  doubt. 


THE  ETHER 

SCHOLARLY  ANALYSIS 

by  Sylvester  Brown  Jr. 

Dear  Sir:  1948  has  been  a remarkable  year.  It  has 
seen  the  blossoming  of  SS  and  TWS  to  man’s  estate. 
Maturity  now  walks  with  calm  and  measured  tread 
through  the  pages  of  these  amazingly — pardon — won- 
drously  changed  magazines.  Those  with  eidetic  mem- 
ories may  recall  by  name  all  the  miserably-written 
potboilers  that  bubbled  from  the  pages  of  these  two 
magazines  during  the  first  half  of  this  decade. 

As  a justification  of  one  of  your  competitors’  pol- 
icies, the  fact  was  pointed  out  that  the  gore  & guts 
type  of  story  with  its  inevitable  hero,  heroine,  BEM, 
dictator,  etc.,  although  superannuated  by  the  better 
magazines,  was  needed  as  a transition  magazine  from 
Adventure-Horror  to  high-grade  science-fiction.  In  this 
light  such  a policy  may  be  justified.  There’s  a catch 
though.  Any  story  no  matter  what  its  subject  matter 
should  be  well-written.  The  stories  in  this  magazine 
just  weren’t. 

In  addition  any  science-fiction  magazine  pursuing 
such  a policy  has,  of  necessity,  a transitory  reading 
public.  If  it  is  merely  a stepping-stone  to  better 
things,  this  must  be  the  case.  To  my  mind  any  true 
science-fiction  magazine  cannot  have  such  an  ever- 
changing  reading  audience.  It  must  have  a fairly  large 
backbone  of  consistent  readers:  that  is  what  makes  a 
magazine  of  this  type  unique. 

This  magazine,  then,  was  outlawed  by  the  consistent 
reader,  the  fan.  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  fans 
— minority,  chronic  gripers,  egotistical,  neurotic — their 
majority  opinion  is  generally  correct.  I believed  them 
to  be  correct  in  this  case,  although  I thought  their 
vituperation  a bit  too  intense. 

The  above  paragraphs  may  seem  out  of  place  in  a 
letter  to  you.  The  point  I wish  to  make  follows:  I 
believed  that  TWS  and  SS  should  also  be  more  or  less 
outlawed  because  of  the  type  of  fiction  they  were  run- 
ning. Occasionally  a good  story — "The  Time  Cheaters” 
— but  buried  deeply.  Perusing  the  first  dozen  issues  of 
SS,  I wondered  how  a posthumously-printed  story 
could  be  the  only  gem  among  all  those  clinkers.  The 
law  of  averages  seemed  to  be  taking  a terrific  beating. 
So  I stopped  TWS  completely  and  bought  SS  only  for 
a complete  file.  Then  came  that  big  clinker,  CF.  Per- 
haps interesting  for  an  issue  or  two,  but  too  hope- 
lessly stereotyped. 

I went  in  the  Army  in  ’42  and  more  or  less  lost  all 
track  of  the  field.  When  I got  out  In  '45,  I hopefully 
bought  issues  of  TWS  and  SS.  Unfortunately  they 
were  worse,  if  anything;  although  that  might  be  ex- 
pected due  to  the  war.  Until  1948  I bought  only  one 
issue:  the  one  containing  “Dark  World.”  It  was  pur- 
chased only  for  the  cover.  Then  one  day  I saw  the 
March,  ’48  issue  and  thought  that  perhaps  by  some 
miracle  an  increase  in  quantity  might  mean  an  in- 
crease in  quality.  Long,  whom  I consider  rather  didac- 
tic and  over-technical,  pleasantly  surprised  with  a fine 
job  of  writing  on  an  old  theme.  And  the  shorts,  which 
heretofore  had  been  an  absolute  waste  of  space,  seemed 
to  be  revamped.  (I  recently  wrote  you  concerning  this 
issue  and  asked  your  help  in  picking  up  various  TWS; 
however,  all  have  been  obtained.  Thanks  anyway.) 

Along  came  March,  and  the  May  issue.  I purchased, 
hoping  that  the  March  issue  had  not  been  an  excep- 
tion. I found  to  my  amazement  that  it  certainly  hadn’t 
been.  Kuttner  was  truly  masterful.  The  quasi-scien- 
tific  explanations  added  just  the  right  amount  of  gar- 
nish to  a terrific  fantasy  novel.  On  the  strength  of 
this  story,  I got  out  the  cover  I’d  been  saving  and 
read  the  story  behind  it.  “Dark  World”  was  excel- 
lent, but  it  was  not  quite  equal  to  the  best  effort  I’ve 
seen  from  Kuttner  in  a long  time.  The  only  negative 
material  in  the  magazine  was  Zagat’s  forlorn  effort. 
Scientific-detection,  with  rare  exceptions,  is  anathema 
to  me. 

Then  July  and  Hamilton.  Not  as  good  as  Kuttner 
but  adequate — very  adequate.  The  story  did  much  to 
remove  the  bad  taste  left  in  my  mouth  by  the  CF 
stories.  Nelson’s  change  of  philosophy  while  inhabit- 
ing the  body  of  Asha  was  one  of  the  finest  bits  of 
writing  EH  has  done.  Finlay  shone:  your  interior  art- 
work is  unexcelled  in  the  field.  Kuttner’s  story  was 
inexcusable  except  as  a shining  example  of  how  an 
author  can  improve  in  ten  years.  Virgil  gave  the  story 
another  excuse  for  being  included. 

Came  the  September  issue  and  Fred  Brown’s  delight- 
ful bit  of  whacky  science-fiction  developed  in  fantasy 
style.  Old  idea  but  novel  and  superior  development. 
"Rat  Race”  contained  a twist  rarely  seen.  I would  like 
to  say  something  to  Mr.  Berner:  ‘ Simple  Life — simple 
story.”  I think  that’s  just  what  Ray  was  attempting 


VIBRATES  139 

and  doing  a very  good  job  of  it.  Am  surprised  so  few 
thought  so. 

Then  we  come  to  the  climax — not  the  denouement, 
I hope — in  the  final  issue  of  the  year.  In  this  issue 
appeared  the  finest  novel  Startling  has  printed — in- 
cluding all  the  ones  I didn’t  read.  Colossal  plot,  sunerb 
development,  adequate  characterization,  tyrannical 
overlords,  etc.  absent  in  toto.  All  in  all  this  story  is  a 
fine  example  of  the  fruition  of  the  Editorial  ideas 
expressed  in  the  Dec.  ’48  TWS.  With  more  stories  such 
as  this,  SS  need  play  second-fiddle  to  no  other  science- 
fiction  magazine  extant.  The  same  may  be  said  for 
TWS,  which  I have  also  started  buying  again. 

“The  Stubborn  Men,”  however,  was  very  poor — the 
poorest  story  of  1948.  Atavistic  for  the  revitalized  SS. 
Long’s  story  was  very  interesting,  although  I think  he 
could  have  done  a lot  more  with  it.  "Dormant”  was 
very  good  and  you  may  feel  rightfully  proud  in 
obtaining  van  Vogt’s  services.  His  one  big  fault — he 
only  has  one  as  far  as  I can  see — is  his  complete  lack 
of  epexegesis.  Perhaps  van  feels  that  he  has  so  hope- 
lessly entangled  his  poor  reader  that  no  amount  of 
explaining  will  extricate  him.  I thought  that  (R)  was 
very  finely  developed.  That  pair  of  ten-foot  pliers 
was  a “bemly”  masterpiece.  Pragnell  was  adequate 
but  not  classic.  He  needs  novel-length  to  move  around 
in!  Ray  didn’t  concentrate  hard  enough  on  his  “Visi- 
tor”. "Mclnch”  was  Vance’s  best  to  date.  This 
scientific-detective  is  one  of  the  exceptions  mentioned 
above. 

Now,  if  possible,  I would  like  to  comment  a bit  on 
your  literate — (sic)  Sneary! — letter  department. 
Mason:  TVOC  minimized  blood  & thunder. 

Astra:  Finlay  and  pornography  are  antithetical.  Pix 
please. 

Thiessen:  You  are  so  right.  Tell  the  poor  Editor  what 
a dero  pilot  is. 

Miss  Lahn:  How  are  you  going  to  get  all  the  different 
science-fiction  magazines  to  cooperate?  Or  is  the 
Oscar  you  are  thinking  of  a SoScar? 

Weber:  More  than  one  science-fiction  magazine  has 
tried  to  clear  up  the  misunderstanding  anent  escape 
velocity.  It  persists,  though — like  out-moded  theories 
have  a way  of  doing. 

Famham:  Custodiet  is  German  for  ‘I  eat  custard’. 
Editor:  I like  a 3/2  ratio  of  science-fiction  to  fantasy. 

If  possible  please  use  the  type  of  paper  used  in 
Dec.  48  TWS  exclusively.  It  is  infinitely  better  than 
that  used  in  the  Nov.  ’48  SS. 

I thank  you  for  having  read  this  far.  I don’t  like 
people  who  dare  you  to  print  their  letter.  I think 
people  who  say  the  printing  of  their  letter  is  a matter 
of  indifference  to  them  equivocate.  I would  like  to 
see  my  letter  printed;  however,  the  main  thing  to  my 
mind  is  that  you’ve  read  what  I had  to  say.  At  any 
rate  I’ll  conform  and  end  with  a ‘poem’: 

Bergen  is  really  a BEM 
He  is  the  one 
Who  chases  his  Fem, 
with  a brush 
Of  truly  demonic  hue. 

However,  those  colors  to  him 
are  unjustly  ascribed. 

Editorial  policy’s  all  snafu. 

The  poor  old  BEM  is  circumscribed. 

Bergey,  that  is. 

Sorry. 

With  all  good  wishes  to  a good  Editor  not  a bleary 
Sergeant  S. — 65  Cordon  St.,  Allston,  Massachusetts. 

You’d  have  us  write  a thesis 
In  answer  to  yours 
With  epexegesis 
Upon  the  allures 
Of  Bergey’s  sweet  lady-BEMs 

Since  they’re  always  sans  corset, 

These  houris  he  limns 
All  our  customers  set 
Their  luminous  glims 
On  their  myriads  of  charms. 

And  buy  the  magazine — we  hope. 

In  the  letter  that  follows,  we  are  breaking 
a rule  and  not  listing  the  author’s  name — for 
reasons  which  shall  presently  be  obvious. 


140  STARTLING  STORIES 


Nor  are  we  giving  an  address.  But  if  any- 
one who  reads  it  wishes  to  correspond  with 
the  author,  we  wish  he’d  enclose  his  letter, 
envelope,  stamp  and  all,  in  a message  to  us 
—The  Editor,  STARTLING  STORIES,  Suite 
1400,  10  East  40th  Street,  New  York  16,  New 
York.  We’ll  be  glad  to  forward  it  to  him. 


ANONYMOUS 


Dear  Editor.  Do  you  have  a free  few  minutes  to 
spare  for  a young  guy  who  comes  seeking  a favor?  I 
read  my  very  first  copy  of  a science-fiction  magazine 
over  the  weekend  and  it  was  certainly  Startling.  The 
magazine  came  to  me  in  a round-about  manner.  The 
stories  will  take  some  getting  used-to  but  I'm  sure 
I’m  going  to  like  them.  I was  most  interested  in  the 
letter  department  though.  The  chatter  absolutely 
fascinated  me. 

I've  been  in  the  States  since  i was  14  (I’m  22  now) 
but  I haven't  yet  become  used  to  the  way  people  here 
throw  the  language  about.  Perhaps  because  I see  so 
few  people.  I’ll  tell  you  about  me  and  then  ask  my 
favor.  Is  that  all  right? 

As  I said — I’m  22.  I was  bom  in  Ireland — one  of 
eight  boys — no  girls.  When  I was  eleven  I got  tangled 
up  in  the  craziest  accident  you  could  imagine — it  be- 
gan with  a tomcat,  my  Dad’s  straight  razor,  a 700- 
year-old  monastery,  a bird’s  nest,  a shepherd  and  some 
racks.  It  ended  with  a broken  back,  several  broken 
hips,  knees,  etc,  etc.  I haven’t  walked  since  then.  I 
grew  though — gosh  yes! — I’m  six  two  and  a half — 
and  have  dark  brown  hair  and  eyes. 

I live  with  a married  brother  and  his  family.  He  is 
very  strict  and  sometimes — well,  I guess  it’s  not  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  saddled  with  a guy 
my  age  who  has  to  be  helped  in  and  out  of  bed  and 
wheel  chair.  Because  of  his  dislike  of  visitors,  we 
never  have  company  except  for  my  other  brothers, 
who  live  near  by.  He  and  his  wife  are  frequently 
away  weekends,  leaving  me  pretty  much  on  my  own, 
and  sometimes  I feel  like  crawling  behind  yellow 
wall  paper — only  we  ain’t  got  no  yellow  wall  paper. 

When  I read  all  those  wonderfully  crazy  letters  at 
the  back  of  your  magazine  I suddenly  thought  how 
wonderful  it  would  be  if  I could  have  some — for  me 
— alone.  Do  you  think  any  of  those  lovable  loons 
would  care  to  correspond  with  me?  It  would  be 
wonderful  if  I had  lots  of  letters  to  write  on  those 
endless  weekends.  I don’t  want  my  name  printed  on 
account  of  my  brother — as  I would  have  to  be  shipped 
to  the  Moon  for  safety  if  he  heard  of  it  appearing  in  a 
science-fiction  magazine. 

While  I'm  no  science-fiction  expert  as  yet,  I have 
always  read  things  other  people  have  thought  strange. 
I’ve  been  reading  the  folk  lore  of  my  country  since  I 
was  old  enough  to  read.  I don’t  mean  fairies  and 
banshees — I mean  stories  about  the  ancient  “heroes” 
and  such.  I can  discuss  books,  music,  sports,  travel 
and  I guess  that’s  all.  My  writing  isn’t  too  good  as 
I’ve  only  been  able  to  use  my  hands  again  for  the 
past  two  and  a half  years  and  had  to  be  taught  to 
write  all  over  again  I’m  not  looking  for  anything  but 
friendship,  so  please  don’t  suspect  me  of  any  “roman- 
tic” or  other  ulterior  motive.  I do  so  desperately  need 
friends  and,  with  the  family  setup,  I can’t  have 
friends  visit  me  except  by  mail.  That’s  all.  I’ll  be 
hoping — and  even  saying  a prayer  or  two. 

Well,  gang — how  about  it? 

NO  LUCK  NELLIE 

by  Kenneth  F.  Slater 

Dear  Editor:  The  November  STARTLING  has  ar- 
rived, and  that  calls  for  a letter!  Bergey  on  the  cover. 
I suppose  that  can’t  be  helped — he  has  got  you 
under  contract,  I guess.  How  much  does  he  pay  you 
to  publish  his  paintings?  Honestly,  he  is  not  so  bad, 
but  I do  wish  he  and  the  author  would  get  together 
some  time.  I can't  fit  that  shemale  and  Seranis  to- 
gether at  all. 

But  Clarke's  AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT. 
Some  story,  some  story.  No  complaints  at  all,  at  all — 
and  one  suggestion — a sequel,  maybe,  uh,  Mr.  Clarke? 


And  the  rest  of  the  stories  I liked  too,  'cept  for 
Frank  B.  Long’s  thing.  Sorry,  but  I thought  that  was 
puerile.  There  is  one  thing — don’t  let  Jack  Vance  wear 
out  his  theme  too  quickly.  After  a time  it  gets  too. 
too — er — can’t  think  of  the  word,  but  the  same  applied 
to  St.  Claire’s  Oona  and  Jick  stories. 

Book  Reviews,  no  less!  The  only  trouble  with  you 
folk  printing  book-reviews  is  that  by  the  time  the 
review  appears  I’ve  read  the  book,  and  couldn't  care 
less.  . . . But  that  is  the  unfortunate  part  of  youi 
printing  schedule,  I guess. 

Yep,  quite  an  ‘A’  list  for  those  fanzines  this  time— 
and  I made  it!  I am  rather  uncertain  whether  an 
encouraging  review  in  the  ‘B’  list  is  to  be  preferred 
to  a slanging  in  the  ‘A’  list,  but  I suppose  so.  Maybe. 

Letters.  Quite  a furore  over  SOMA.  I could  pun,  but 
I won’t.  But  thanks  for  the  hints,  fellows,  I did  not 
bother  going  anyfurther  than  fantasy  for  my  stuff — 
I could  have  looked  in  a dictionary,  and  I have.  They 
seem  to  vary  as  much  as  the  various  other  folk 
mentioned.  So  I’ll  stick  to  my  original  statement.  As 
far  as  Fantasy  goes,  BRAVE  NEW  WORLD  has  the 
earliest  mention  I can  trace.  Anyone  seen  anything 
earlier? 

Now  the  only  folk  I intend  to  address  some  re- 
marks to  are  Es  and  Les  Cole — Look  you  here.  Les. 
There  is  an  'ole  in  Es’  little  plot-plan -or- what-have- 
you  that  you  could  sail  Skylark  III  thru.  If  the  laws 
of  probability  lay  down  that  a universe  must  exist  in 
which  a time  machine  is  invented,  and  that  of  the 
many  universes  in  which  time  machines  are  in- 
vented, one  of  ’em  is  gonna  visit  our  universe,  well, 
you  must  remember  you  are  speaking  of  probabilities, 
and  the  equal  and  cancelling  probability  is  that  there 
must  be  a universe  in  which  NO  time  machine  is 
invented,  and  a number  of  universes  which  are  not 
visited.  You  can  stretch  this  into  a nice  little  paradox 
by  saying  that  in  a fan-shaped  time  system  covering 
all  possibilities  there  must  be  a universe  in  which  a 
time-traveller  exists  who  visits  all  other  universes, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  universe  that  is  never 
visited  must  exist.  This  is  of  course  following  the 
basis  of  travelling  crossways  in  the  fan  shaped  time 
system,  which  is  your  analogy.  Someone  else  can 
take  it  up  from  there,  I am  getting  dizzy!!  But  at 
least,  I think  I’ve  pointed  out  the  hole.  Maybe  this 
is  the  universe  that  never  gets  visited. 

Now,  Mr.  Editor,  I think  I mentioned  in  a previous 
letter  to  you  (in  the  guise  of  TWS  Ed.),  that  I had  a 
nice  lot  of  correspondence  arising  out  of  my  letter  in 
TWS  Oct.  issue, — I have  personally  answered  every 
letter  received  except  one!  A little  lady  named  Nellie 
McClenning,  of  Kansas — the  only  address  I could  find 
was  ‘Just  Luck,  Kansas’  and  that  address  doesn’t  seem 
to  have  found  her.  . . anyone  know  the  lass?  Or 
are  you  reading  this.  Nellie?  Send  me  the  address, 
if  so,  please.  Dankesehr. 

I guess  that  about  concludes  this  epistle,  except  to 
offer  STARTLING  Congrats  on  its  tenth  birthday, 
which  probably  occurred  the  issue  before  this  letter 
gets  printed — if  it  does!  But  soon  you  will  be  as  old 
as  me  fren’  Mike  Wigodsky — but  then  he’ll  be  older, 
won’t  he?  Or  is  it  younger  he  grows? — Riverside,  South 
Brink.  Wisbech,  Cambridgeshire,  England. 

We  have  combed  the  office  atlases  for  ves- 
tigial traces  of  Just  Luck,  Kansas,  to  no 
avail.  Do  you  suppose  our  Nell  was  pulling 
a swift  one,  throwing  a curve  or  whiat-all? 

Yes,  you  missed  the  anniversary  issue  by 
one — but  thanks  for  the  congratulations  any- 
way. And  thank  you  and  the  entire  British 
fan  movement  for  keeping  us  so  closely  in- 
formed as  to  your  activities.  Re  the  Novem- 
ber cover — Arthur  Clarke  has  written  us 
ar.ent  it.  Apparently  it  caused  him  nearly  to 
do  an  ophidian  act  and  jump  out  of  his  skin. 
And  we  rather  liked  it — oh,  well. 

DAZED  AND  NUMB 

by  Barbara  Ann  Lahn 

Dear  Editor:  I am  dazed — numbl  “It"  was  on  the 
November  cover.  Oh,  Bergey — what  have  you  been 
eating? 


THE  ETHER 

Now  I have  always  thought  that  the  cover  was,  so 
to  speak,  the  bait  for  the  ’zine  it  appeared  on.  The 
July  cover  made  me  wonder,  “What  story  is  inside 
that  makes  buildings  look  like  tires  hauled  out  of 
Mrs.  Murphy’s  chowder?” 

My  ever-present  curiosity  aroused,  I bought  my  first 
ish  of  SS  and  have  been  very  pleased  with  same  ever 
since.  This  (the  November)  type  of  cover  would  scare 
away  any  prospective  readers  mstead  of  snaring  them 
(there  are  a few  poor  souls  who  don’t  know  of  the 
delights  to  be  found  within). 

Rover  Boy  is  bored  almost  to  yawning  and  the  gal 
is  screeching  as  usual.  I know  if  some  BESM  (Bug- 
Eye  Monster)  soared  into  the  ether  with  me  in  its 
claws,  I would  let  out  a yell  that  would  be  heard,  not 
submit  without  so  much  as  a whimper. 

That  eye!  Those  tiny  eyes!  The  more  I looked  at 
it  the  more  horrible  it  became.  ’Tis  true,  I have  not 
been  quite  able  to  overcome  my  horror  of  such  things, 
even  after  a year  of  science  fiction.  Don’t  feel  too 
badly,  Bergey.  I know  you’re  only  earning  your  pay- 
check — but  I couldn’t  bring  myself  to  like  that  BESM. 

The  reason  I am  yelling  so  about  the  cover  is  be- 
cause I have  nothing  else  to  gripe  about.  The  HoF 
was  really  swell. 

So  your  Januaiw  ish  marked  ten  years  in  the  bloody 
field  of  science  fiction.  Well,  my  sincerest  and  most 
heart-felt  congratulations,  even  if  I am  a new  reader 
of  SS.  I am  here  to  stay  and  even  though  I disagree 
with  some  of  your  stories,  stay  I will!  Ditto  for  TWS. 

But  please,  Bergey,  no  more  eyes. — Bristol  Pike  R. 
D.  No.  1,  Croydon,  Pennsylvania. 

Okay,  Barbara  Ann,  the  eyes  have  it! 
We’ll  send  Bergey  a memo. 

HALP!  HALP! 

by  Jim  Phillips 

Dear  Editor:  Please  don’t  improve  STARTLING  any- 
more. If  you  do  I’ll  probably  get  kicked  out  of 
school.  Look  what  your  November  issue  did  to  me! 

I started  on  it  in  study  hall.  Furtively  I pulled  it 
out  of  my  notebook,  covering  the  Bergey  cover  with 
a practised  palm.  Soon  I was  engrossed  in  AGAINST 
THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT.  The  period  ended  ten  pages 
too  soon.  I was  too  deep  into  the  Clarke  tale  for  the 
bell  to  penetrate.  A black  shadow  fell  over  the 
paragraph  I was  reading.  Cautiously  I raised  my  head. 
Then  I wished  I hadn’t. 

The  study  hall  teacher  was  glaring  at  me.  “James,” 
she  said  (it’s  always  James  when  she’s  mad  at  me) 
“get  out  of  here — at  once.” 

Now  I never  argue  with  her  if  I can  help  it.  I 
muttered,  “Yes,  mam,”  gathered  up  my  books  and 
started  to  leave.  I glanced  back  as  I left  and  was 
sorry.  There  was  foam  on  her  lips,  her  eyes  were 
wild.  Alas,  poor  soul,  she  just  couldn’t  withstand  the 
mind-sapping  yellow  Bergey  background.  I rushed 
on  to  class  with  a shriek  pursuing  me. 

Nothing  more  happened  that  day — but  next  day’s 
study  hall — whew!  Better  not  tell  it.  I can  use  it  in 
a horror  story. 

Seriously,  this  was  an  excellent  issue.  Only  one 
poor  story — THE  STUBBORN  MEN — which  was  too 
short  and  much  too  confusing.  I don’t  know  whether 
Clarke,  van  Vogt  or  Long  cops  the  honors.  Let’s  call 
it  a three-way  tie. 

A final  word  about  Clarke’s  tale.  Obviously  he  has 
the  materials  for  a sequel.  Let’s  have  it. — 7 04  East 
Piankishaw,  Paola,  Kansas. 

Poor  Jim— he  has  our  sympathies.  We  re- 
member  being  similarly  caught  in  a study 
hall  session  in  a sub-prep  boarding  school. 
But  we  couldn’t  escape  and  go  home.  As  for 
the  Clarke  sequel  to  ATFON — we  only  wish 
we  could  find  time  to  write  one.  Maybe  he 
will  some  day. 

SHE  VOTES  FOR 

by  Elva  L.  (Mrs.  A.  J.)  Kaputa 

Dear  Editor:  First  I want  to  tel]  you  how  much  I 
like  STARTLING  STORIES.  I read  all  the  science 


VIBRATES  141 

fiction  and  fantasy  I can  get  my  hands  on  but  I really 
believe  I like  SS  ven  a smidgin  better  than  THRILL- 
ING WONDER  STORIES.  Arthur  C.  Clarke  is  a 
writer  after  my  own  heart.  I did  like  "Against  the 
Fall  of  Night”  very  much.  I don’t  know  who  did  the 
illustrations  but  they're  good.  Who  did  you  say  did 
them?  Again  Bergey  worked  with  the  interior  artist 
to  get  the  details  identical.  Hurrah  for  whoever 
started  that. — Boa:  #49,  Harrington,  Wash. 

Such  cooperation,  collaboration  or  what 
have  you  has  been  going  on  for  quite  some 
time  now — in  fact,  .ever  since  the  magazine 
was  started.  The  covers  do  not  always  illus- 
trate directly  the  stories  from  which  they  are 
conceived — but  they  are  supposed  to  sym- 
bolize same  at  any  rate.  As  for  the  “interior” 
artist,  that  was  Verne  S.  Stevens. 

ANGLOVIEW 

by  Neil  C.  Gourlay 

Dear  Sir:  Comments  on  the  November  STARTLING 
— congratulations  on  the  tenth  birthday.  I have  read 
your  magazine  from  Vo.  1,  No.  1.  “The  Black  Flame” 
and  the  other  novels  of  your  first  year  were  supreme. 
Indeed,  during  your  quarterly  days,  it  was  hard  to 
believe  you  ever  had  reached  such  a standard.  How- 
ever, from  about  the  time  of  “Valley  of  the  Flame” 
in  mid-1946,  the  quality  of  the  stories  has  improved. 
1947  was  your  best  year  yet.  Though  1948  was  not 
quite  up  to  the  previous  year,  it  maintained  a high 
level. 

“Against  the  Fall  of  Night”  was  a good  first  novel 
from  one  of  Britain’s  foremost  science  fiction  fans. 
The  idea  was  certainly  not  new  but  the  freshness 
came  from  the  author’s  style.  Any  author  who  can 
rekindle  that  feeling  of  suspense  and  anticipation  I 
first  felt  when  I went  exploring  with  Captain  Nemo 
in  the  Nautilus  or  tramped  the  deserts  of  Barsoom 
with  John  Carter  deserves  praise. 

“The  Isotope  Men”  was  very  good  in  1933  but  not 
exactly  first-rate  science  fiction  today.  “The  Stubborn 
Men”  was  passable.  “Humpty  Dumpty  Had  a Great 
Fall”  was  a bizarre,  well-written  piece  of  science 
fiction — very  enjoyable.  Interesting  theory  of  the  in- 
herent cruelty  of  fairy  tales  and  nursery  rhymes. 
However,  aren’t  most  nursery  rhymes  just  parodies 
of  political  satires  of  the  past?  For  example,  the  well- 
known  “Mary,  Mary,  Quite  Contrary”  started  as  an 
attack  on  Queen  Mary  of  England  at  the  time  of  the 
religious  persecutions  in  1550. 

“Dormant”  was  typical  van  Vogt  and  therefore 
quite  good.  “Ring  Around  the  Redhead”  was  the  same, 
while  not  van  Vogt.  “The  Visitor”  was  excellent — the 
best  story  in  the  issue.  In  fact,  too  good  for  science 
fiction  (let’s  have  that  again — Ed.).  The  Mars  setting 
only  limits  its  public.  I advise  Bradbury  to  try  to 
write  more  in  the  Henry  James  manner,  with  known 
surroundings  and  emotional  problems  to  solve.  He 
may  well  become  one  of  the  greats  of  American  lit- 
erature— but  only  if  he  gets  away  from  science  fiction. 
Remember,  H.  G.  Wells  will  be  known  a hundred  years 
hence  for  “Kipps”,  not  “First  Men  on  the  Moon”. 

As  for  “The  Unspeakable  Mclnch”,  unspeakable  is 
the  word.  On  the  whole,  a good  issue. — 54  Grosvenor 
Drive,  Whitley  Bay,  Northumberland,  England. 

We’ll  take  issue  with  you  on  Bradbury.  In 
the  first  place,  if  an  author  finds  his  imag- 
ination more  stimulated  by  bizarre  than  fam- 
iliar backgrounds,  he  should  stick  to  the 
bizarre  if  he  can  hurdle  them — which,  we 
feel,  Bradbury  can.  As  for  his  writing  like 
Henry  James — he’s  a far  better  writer  than 
James  in  his  least  subordinate-clause  days. 
Let  him  develop  toward  maturity  along  his 
own  lines. 

Wells  will  never  be  known  in  lasting  liter- 
ature for  his  science  fiction  stories,  excellent 


STARTLING  STORIES 


as  they  were-,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
was,  when  writing  them,  invariably  preoccu- 
pied with  ideas  rather  than  characters.  Brad- 
bury’s men  on  Mars  and  what-have-you  are 
as  vividly  alive  as  Wells’  “Sleeper”  and  oth- 
ers were  cardboard  automatons.  Think  it 
over — you  may  see  the  difference. 

As  for  the  nursery  rhymes,  you  are  to  a 
certain  extent  correct.  “Mother  Goose”  in 
particular,  we  believe,  was  based  on  poli- 
tical satire.  But  this  fact  does  not  detract 
from  the  basic  savagery  of  the  children’s 
fairy  tales  of  yore.  Even  Lewis  Carroll  had 
carnivorous  overtones. 

Perchance  you  may  not  remember  a cou- 
ple of  silly  items  that  were  around  some 
ten  years  ago.  One  went — “Mistress  Mary, 
Quite  Contrary,  how  does  your  garden  grow? 
With  silver  bells  and  cockle  shells  and  one 
lousy  petunia.” 

And  then  there  was,  “Hickory,  dickory 
dock,  the  mice  ran  up  the  clock.  The  clock 
struck  one — but  the  other  was  uninjured.” 

Had  enough? 

REBUTTAL 

by  Corporal  Omer  A.  Fournier 

Dear  Ed:  This  letter  is  in’ direct  rebuttal  to  the  one 
written  by  Linda  Bowles.  She  seems  to  dislike  that 
last  issue  of  yours.  What’s  up  with  this  woman? 
Personally  I thought  it  was  swell. 

I somehow  hope  that  someday  I will  see  a story  to 
match  one  I read  in  Germany  called  “Road  to  Glory.” 
It  was  an  enormous  volume,  packed  with  the  tales  of 
the  Kargha-Kan,  who  was  immortal  and  who  traced 
our  wanderings  to  the  extinction  of  the  human  race  in 
a series  of  stories  dealing  with  future  history  and 
invention. 

Does  anyone  happen  to  know  where  I can  pick  up 
another  copy?  Mine  was  stolen  while  coming  home 
from  the  ET  It  was  published  by  Gootfried  & Son  in 
1921  in  Munich . — A F 1 9233806  USAF . Ward  #15,  Station 
Hospital,  Lacklan  Airbase,  San  Antonio,  Texas. 

We  can't  seem  to  find  “Road  to  Glory" 
listed  in  the  Checklist  of  Fantastic  Liter- 
ature, Omer,  which  is  the  only  reference  we 
have  handy.  I hope  some  among  our  other 
readers  can  give  you  an  assist.  Thanks  for 
writing. 

BACK  AGAIN 

by  Rick  Sneary 

Dear  Editor:  Well  the  first  of  the  25c  size  SSs  is  out. 
And  I hope  that  all  thos  to  come  will  be  as  good.  . 
Or  atleast  the  parts  that  wre  good.  I agree  with  thos 
who  said  the  cover  reminded  them  of  the  1942  covers. 
Glaring  yellow  back  ground,  with  a robot  steeling 
away  the  hero  (that  is  a switch  anyway.)  Say,  and 
who  said  the  robot  had  legs  and  arms.  Clarke  just  said 
it  had  eyes  and  tintacals.  . Pook  on  Bergey.  . 

But  while  speeking  of  Clarke,  take  a bow  (not  to 
far  you  dope,  what  to  fall  on  your  face)  for  finding 
him.  . AGAINST  the  Fall  of  NIGHT  was  the  best 
novel  you  have  had  in  you  pulpy  old  mag  In  over  a 
year.  . Way  back  to  about  THE  STAR  OF  LIFE.  . This 
was  the  first  one  that  I didn’t  put  down  hafe  a dozen 
times  in  booring  spots,  and  was  sorry  to  see  end.  . 

No  kidding  after  the  fantasy  junk  coppyed  from  the 


dead  past  and  Merritt  you  have  been  dishing  out  this 
was  like  a breth  of  cool  air.  . Not  that  it  was  a new 
idea,  but  then  who  expects  that.  . I’m  talking  about 
the  dept,  the  feel  of  the  story  . . Clarke  made  it  live.  . . 
Even  if  his  people  looked  about  as  alive  as  wooden  In- 
dians. . . . Speeking  of  which,  I think  he  got  the 
wrong  cast.  . They  seemed  more  like  people  of  about 
the  year  2057,  than  something  like  13,000,000,000.000,000 
A.D.  . . I hope  people  will  change  a little  more  than 
that  in  that  length  of  time.  . 

One  thing  that  made  it  really  outstanding,  or  reather 
two.  . Not  one  person  died  a vilent  death,  and  there 
wasn't  one  heroian.  other  than  Theon's  mother.  My  we 
see  more  of  Clarke,  if  he  can  do  more  like  this. 

The  idea  to  reprint  in  pocket  book  form  some  of 
your  older  classics  sounds  good.  . You  have  a lot  of 
good  ones  back  # there.  . How  about  the  Weinbaura 
stories. 

Say,  no  one  was  speeking  about  it,  but  remember 
that  hot  idea  you  had  about  reprinting  stuff  from 
fanzines.  . It  feel  through  becouse  you  didn't  get  any- 
thing you  thought  you  wanted.  . Well  you  know  what 
the  trouble  was.  . It  was  all  slanted  the  wrong  way.  . 
No  mater  what  it  is,  everything  is  aimed  to  please  the 
people  that  the  writter  thinks  will  read  it.  . So,  why 
don't  you  put  out  a zine.  . Say  four  pages.  . Use  both 
fiction  and  articles.  You  can  get  some  good  book  re- 
views for  free  I bet.  . 

Limite  it  to  fans,  who  haven't  sold  anything  to  the 
pros.  And  award  a prise  of  say  5 bucks  to  the  best 
peice  each  issue,  and  say  $2,  to  a duner  up.  . As  prizes 
they  wouldn’t  distroy  their  amature  standing.  Ofcourse 
you  might  have  a hard  time  without  Keller,  but  then 
you  might  try  getting  him  to  wrie  profesionally.  . One 
thing,  you  could  aid  fandom  too.  By  turning  over 
everything  you  couldn't  use  to  the  N.F.F.F.s  Mass, 
bureau.  . Why  posh,,  you  could  nodoubt  even  get 
Kennedy  to  do  the  ground  work.  . Oh  well.  . . I like  to 
get  Ideas,  even  if  no  one  listens  to  them.  . . 

No  luck  with  Fances  Keysor.  . . She  came  over  to 
see  me  once  and  then  moved  up-state.  . Oh  well,  she 
was  married.  . But  then  I'm  a hermit  anyway.— 
2962  Santa  Ana  st,.  South  Gate,  Calif. 

But  not  a hermit  crab — we  hope.  You  want 
us  to  publish  a fanzine?  Rick,  you’re  asking 
for  it.  How  would  we  ever  get  the  prozine 
out  with  all  those  fans  around?  At  that,  we’d 
rather  you  asked  for  it  than  we.  There’ll  be 
more  on  the  reprint  idea  later.  Glad  you 
like  AFTON.  We  did  too. 

RHYME  OR  RIME? 

by  Shelby  Vick 

Dear  Ed: 

“The  time  has  come." 

The  Librarian  said 
“to  talk  about  s-L 

“Of  Humpty  D.—  which 
weren’t  so  hot — 
and  everything  that’s  left. 

There’s  Isotope  Men — 

Hall  of  Fame 

The  author’s  different 
story  the  same. 

"Dormant”  by 
Van  Vogt  stood 

Above  the  others— 

It  was  good. 

As  for  ‘"The  Stubborn  Men”  I’m  sure — 

What  could  rhyme  with  ’sure’  but  ‘poor’ — 

“Against  the  Fall  of  Night”  was  fine 
Let’s  have  more  along  this  line. 

“Ring  ’Round  the  Redhead” 
old  but  good 

That  was  some  ring 
in  which  the  redhead  stood. 

The  other  two.  I haven’t  read — 

(wish  Magnus  Ridolph 
hadda  stood  in  bed.) 

Just  Hercule  Poirot 
in  some  future  day 

Minus  mention  of 
little  cells  of  gray.) 

Someone  said  that 
Bradbury’s  morbid. 

Well,  at  least,  he 
Isn’t  sordid. 


THE  ETHER  VIBRATES 


T E V 
thanx  a lot 

You  published  my  letter 
tho  it  wasn't  so  hot. 

One  issue  almost 
poem  free — 

Should  that  be  a 
hint  to  me? 

Still,  I’ve  done  it 
and  I’m  glad ! 

Even  tho 

the  rhythm’s  bad. 

All  the  way  thru 
and  still  a pome. 

(I’m  nearly  done  with 
my  little  tome.) 

If  you  my  mistakes 
will  forgive, 

I’ll  try  to  forget 
When  the  Earth  Lived. 

Now,  that’s  a good  bargain; 

an  even  swap. 

So  I guess  I’ll  hafta 
close  up  shop. 

Please  put  up  with 
all  us  boors. 

Until  next  time. 

Sincerely  yours. 

— 411  Jenks,  Panama  City , Fla. 

Dear  Boor — we  say,  and  mean  it  too 
Just  now  we’ve  had  enough  of  you, 

A pome,  as  if  you  didn’t  know, 

Is  fruit  that  apple  trees  do  grow — 

A poem’s  something  else  again, 

A rhythmic  outgush  birthed  in  pain, 

Or  pleasure  or  in  rev’rence  solemn, 
You’ll  not  find  any  in  this  column. 

But  take  not  this  to  heart  too  much, 
Write  us  again,  you  such-and-such. 

s.o.s. 

by  L.  F.  Nunn 

Sirs:  This  is  an  S.O.S.  from  "darkest”  Africa.  For 
some  time  I have  been  reading  STARTLING  STORIES 
amongst  other  science  fiction  and  I cannot  understand 
why  you  print  this  magazine  only  once  every  two 
months.  In  my  opinion  SS  is  the  finest  magazine  of  all. 

To  get  back  to  my  first  statement — it  has  long  been 
difficult  to  get  SS  here,  owing  to  the  dollar  shortage 
and  now  the  supply  has  stopped.  I wonder  if  any  of 
your  readers  have  any  copies  they  have  finished  with. 
If  they  would  send  them  to  me  they  would  be  helping 
to  lighten  a comer  of  the  so-called  "dark”  continent. 
I would  be  glad  to  return  the  favor  in  any  way  possi- 
ble— if  you  find  some  good  Samaritan  amongst  your 
readers.  In  the  meantime,  keep  up  the  high  standard 
of  your  magazine. — P.  O.  Box  #537,  Bulawayo,  South - 
era  Rhodesia. 

Wanted — one  or  more  Samaritans — Ed. 

DOWN  PENINSULA  WAY 

by  Rose  Davenport 

Dear  Editor:  I have  been  a fan  of  STARTLING 
STORIES  for  seven  years  now  but  this  is  the  first 
time  I have  written  a letter.  I just  finished  AGAINST 
THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke.  It’s  4-0 
by  me.  I couldn't  lay  the  mag  down  until  I finished  it. 
I hope  Mr.  Clarke  will  write  a sequel. 

Your  magazine  keeps  improving  all  the  time.  THE 
ISOTOPE  MEN  was  very  good.  A new  idea  on  the 
origin  of  man.  Worthy  of  being  a HoF  classic. 
DORMANT — good.  Very  different.  Van  Vogt  is  always 
a top  hand.  In  fact,  the  whole  issue  was  darned  good. 
Excellent  in  every  way. 

I would  like  to  get  in  touch  with  some  other  SS  fans 
In  San  Francisco  or  down  the  Peninsula.  I am  a lone 
stfan  at  present  and  will  welcome  any  and  all.  Maybe 
we  can  start  a club  or  something. — 13 7 Cherry  Avenue, 
South  San  Francisco,  California. 


143 

We  thank  you,  our  father  thanks  you,  our 
mother  thanks  you,  etc.,  Rose.  And  may  all 
your  fanzines — whenever  they  appear — be 
little  ones. 

SILVER  THREADS  AMONG 
THE  EDITORS 

by  Ann  Callanan 

Dear  Old  Editor:  I’ve  been  reading  science  fiction 
and  the  like  for  about  two  years  now  and  this  is  my 
very  first  tan  letter.  I just  can’t  keep  still  any  longer 
about  Ray  (genius)  Bradbury.  He’s  wonderful!!! 
How  about  slipping  in  an  extra  page  next  issue  with 
his  biography? 

"The  Visitor”  wasn’t  up  to  his  usual  A-plus  number- 
one  ipsy-pipsy  Yankee-Doddle  style  (I  suffer  from 
Peter  Donalditis>  but  it  was  pretty  good  at  that. 

Will  you  tell  me  why  Bergey  always  bedecks  the 
covers  with  blondes?  Was  his  mother  frightened  by  a 
peroxide  bottle?— 353  West  44th  Street,  New  York  18. 
New  York. 


No — it  was  white  henna. 

INTO  THE  FLAMES 

by  Chad  Oliver 

Dear  Editor:  And  still  they  come,  for  which  Ghu  be 
praised.  Do  you  realize  that  there  have,  with  the 
November  issue,  now  been  a total  of  fifty-three  issues 
of  Startling  Stories'?  Allowing  four  hours  per  issue 
reading  time,  that  means  that  we  veteran  followers 
have  spent  some  two  hundred  and  twelve  hours  of  our 
short  lives  reading  your  magazine — or  about  nine  full 
days.  Gad,  I can  hear  it  all  now  . . . And  what  did  you 
do  during  your  life,  old  man?  1 read  Startling  Stories, 
sir.  Cast  this  one  into  the  flames — 

But  enough  of  deep  philosophy;  leave  us  turn  to  the 
business  at  hand.  Against  the  Fall  of  Night,  by  Arthur 
C.  Clarke,  was  a good,  solid  novel,  and  I enjoyed  it  a 
lot.  It  had  a number  of  unusual  angles,  I thought — 
notably  the  lack  of  a heroine.  Oh,  thank  you,  noble 
editor,  THANK  YOU!  I particularly  liked  the  notion 
about  how  different  the  reality  is  apt  to  be  from  the 
legends  which  it  inspires.  That,  I believe,  is  very  true. 
The  whole  thing  was  quite  refreshing  in  plot  and  treat- 
ment. More? 

Van  Vogt  blushingly  made  his  debut  in  SS  with  a 
good  ’un,  but  I’m  a leetle  partial  to  Bradbury’s  The 
Visitor  in  the  short  story  department.  Man  must  ever 
destroy  his  dreams  with  his  greed,  it  seems.  All  of 
Ray’s  stories  seem  to  go  so  much  deeper  than  the 
average  stfantasy  tale,  good  as  that  average  has  been  of 
late.  They  have  a meaning  quite  beyond  the  imme- 
diate demands  of  the  plot.  If  anyone  is  giving  gold 
medals  to  authors  this  year,  Bradbury  wins  my  nomi- 
nation by  four  racetracks. 

Williams’  fable  was  good.  I found  the  combination 
of  Long  and  Mother  Goose  a trifle  difficult  to  swallow 
— mv  epiglottis,  y’know.  But  Long  has  shown  such 
terrific  improvement  of  late  that  there  are  certainly 
no  kicks  from  here.  It  wasn’t  very  long  ago,  I recall, 
when  he  was  inflicting  John  Carstairs,  the  Botanical 
Detective,  upon  us.  Speaking  of  sleuths,  I see  that 
Magnus  Ridolph  has  foiled  the  garbage  man.  Goody! 
Jack  Vance  obviously  has  considerable  talent;  I wish 
he  would  focus  it  upon  a more  worthy  subject. 

On  the  inside  pix,  I pic  Finlay.  The  portrait  of 
Alvin  on  Page  15  is  cute,  but  he’s  the  first  kid  I ever 
saw  who  had  his  mouth  blandly  reposing  in  his  right 
cheek.  Ain’t  the  future  wunnerful?  Think  of  the  ad- 
vantages this  entails.  Go  ahead.  I dare  you.  The  cover 
was  a nightmare  in  red  and  yellow,  or  have  you  heard? 
(Yes,  we’ve  heard — Ed.) 

The  features  were  all  fine.  Thank  you  for  your  kind 
words  anent  THE  MOON  PUDDLE.  To  you,  sir,  THE 
MOON  PUDDLE  AWARD!  We  are  sending  you,  under 
separate  cover,  some  evaporated  water  direct  from  the 
original  Puddle.  Simply  add  water  and  dixie-cup, 
drink  and  you  will  be  a new  man.  Who,  I can’t  say  at 
the  present  time.  . . 

I do  dearly  love  TEV.  Such  fascinating  peonle,  don’t 
you  think?  I particularly  enjoyed  the  offerings  from 
Zimmer  (I  am  sure  she  must  be  more  attractive  than 


Bergey's  Babes;  who  isn’t?)  Sneary  the  Superior  Sian, 
Barbara  Lahn,  the  Coxes,  Haliburton,  Pace — dammit, 
they  were  all  good!  The  book  reviews  were  excellent. 

Lest  Darkness  Fall  would  have  been  a better  title 
for  the  renaissance  novel  this  issue — too  bad  that  L. 
Sprague  de  Camp  beat  Clarke  to  it.  Hmmm.  I note 
with  some  apprehension  that  next  issue  Henry  Kuttner 
is  going  to  write  a yam  under  his  own  name.  Hang  on, 
men — anything  may  happen! — Harper  Star  Route, 
Kenrvtlle,  Texas. 

You  have  us  thoroughly  confused  as  to 
our  identity  of  the  morrow — Chad.  But  Al- 
vin’s cheek  is  easily  explained.  Did  you  ever 
see  a picture  of  Johnny  Sain,  the  Braves’  star 
hurler?  Alvin  too  chewed  old-shaggy. 

WHO  ARE  YOU-ALL  ANYWAY? 

by  Thorne  Runyan 

Dear  Sir:  Long  a passive  reader  of  STARTLING, 
I have  just  about  come  to  the  end  of  my  tether!  In 
perusing  the  contents  of  the  letter  department  of  your 
November  issue,  I come  upon  personages  who,  in  the 
style  of  a humorist  long  dead,  whose  style  should  have 
been  interred  with  him,  attempt  to  invoke  the  muse  of 
humor  with  flagrant  mis-spellings.  AND  THESE 
PEOPLE  TRY  TO  CRITICISE  YOUR  MAGAZINE 
AND  YOUR  CHOICE  OF  ARTISTS  AND  AUTHORS! 
These  people,  when  not  ghoulishly  at  work  interring 
the  fragile  bones  of  the  English  Language,  while  away 
the  time  in  breaking  every  sacrosanct  rule  of  poetry. 
There  is  such  a thing  as  poetic  licence,  but  their 
assaults  border  on  the  lesionistic. 

Perhaps  it  is  best  for  me  to  back-track  for  a mo- 
ment, and  explain  this  sudden  vituperation  upon  the 
heads  of  the  fanatics  which  patronize  your  magazine. 
By  saying  I was  a passive  reader  I meant  that  I read 
your  magazine,  and  nothing  more:  that  is,  I never  wrote 
a letter,  put  out  or  read  no  “fan-mag,”  and  discussed 
the  magazine  very  little  with  my  friends.  But  even 
the  most  peaceful  creature  can  be  stirred  by  continued 
and  successive  irritation. 

First,  allow  me  to  launch  a defense  in  favor  of 
Earle  Bergey.  An  artist  and  cartoonist  myself,  I can 
appreciate  his  use  of  coloring  and  shading.  Although 
no  Virgil  Finlay,  he  IS  good.  His  only  weak  point 
seems  his  inability  to  portray  real  fear,  hate,  and 
surprise  on  the  faces  of  his  characters.  I doubt  that 
he  has  ever  seen  any  of  those  emotions  in  all  their 
stark  reality — for,  once  seen,  they  can  never  be  for- 
gotten. 

Now  I must  throw  up  a defensive  screen  for  the 
editor’s  choice  of  authors  and  stories.  To  make  a 
magazine  economically  feasible,  it  must  cater  to  a 
wide  variety  of  tastes,  mores,  and  sphere  of  interests. 
So  don’t  grouse  so  loudlv  when  a narticular  story  or 
author  fails  to  titillate  vour  narticular  fancy. 

Now  the  hall  of  praise  opens  its  majestic  door!  I 
notice,  with  approval,  the  silent  encroachment  of  the 
science  of  semantics  into  your  literature.  The  faster 
humans  get  the  idea  of  thinking  semantically,  the 
longer  the  race  of  Genus  Homo  will  grace  (?)  the 
Cosmos.  I cannot  remember  who  said  these  choice 
words:  “More  and  more  people  in  the  world  are 
reading,  writing,  talking,  hearing,  feeling  life;  when 
will  they  start  thinking?”  but.  your  magazine  is 
slowly,  but  surely,  kicking  the  thinking  machinery  into 
action.  The  main  trouble  is  that  you  serve  a relatively 
small  portion  of  humanity. 

Since  I am  essentially  a scientist  (Psychology  Major 
here  at  Duke  U. ) . I will  attempt  to  classify  your 
stories  in  a scientific  manner.  The  first  Number  after 
each  title  is  its  plausability  quotient,  then  the  second 
is  its  entertainment  value  in  percent  over  the  other 
stories,  one  issue  being  100%. 


AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT, 

A.  C.  Clarke 50%. 

The  ISOTOPE  MEN,  F.  Pragnell 0%. 

The  STUBBORN  MEN.  R.  M.  Williams.  .100% . 
HUMPTY  DUMPTY  HAD  A GREAT 

FALL,  F.  B.  Long 99%. 

DORMANT.  A.  E.  Van  Vogt 100%. 

RING  AROUND  THE  REDHEAD, 

J.  D.  MacDonald 75%. 

The  VISITOR.  Ray  Bradbury 100%. 

The  UNSPEAKABLE  McINCH.  J.  Vance  80%. 


..  30% 
..  0% 
..  10% 

. . 5% 

..  40% 

..  2% 
..  10% 
..  3% 


100% 


These  percentages  for  plausability  are  based  on 
possible  basis  in  fact. 

VanVogt  sure  knows  what  he’s  talking  about,  and 
his  story  rates  the  highest  entertainment  quotient.  His 
stories  are  characterized  by  an  almost  poetical  and  sur- 
prising ending. 

That  ISOTOPE  MEN!!!  No  one  can  be  exposed  to 
such  loads  of  radioactivity,  and  survive.  Not  even  in- 
habitants of  that  planet  could  live  on  an  atomic  gener- 
ator without  tons  of  shielding!!! 

The  STUBBORN  MEN  had  an  almost  poetical  quality 
resembling  VanVogt’s. 

“Against  the  Fall  of  Night”  has  such  a low  plausa- 
bility mark  because  the  council,  being  older  men 
would  subconsciously,  if  not  consciously,  refuse  any- 
thing told  them  by  Alvin  which  would  threaten  their 
seniority.  The  mere  fact  of  Alvin’s  challenging  the 
council  would  have  been  the  utmost  insult  to  their  ego. 

The  others,  I feel,  need  little  or  no  explanation,  so  I 
will  not  defend  my  choices.  Other  people  may  like  the 
stories  I rated  low  better  than  the  others,  as  people 
vary.  As  for  me.  the  issue,  as  a whole,  was  a very 
well  put-together  issue,  and  I concur  with  Mssr.  Wm. 
Thiessen  in  his  statement  that  the  magazine  has  im- 
proved 100%,  in  the  last  three  years. — Box  ft 4074 , Duke 
Station,  Durham,  North  Carolina. 

Okay  and  thanks,  Herr  Runyan — but  some- 
how I misdoubt  you  have  put  our  more  crap- 
ulous critics  to  final  rout.  But  you  get  credit 
for  a nice  try. 

If  you  can  so  accurately  define  entertain- 
ment values,  you  should  be  in  Hollywood, 
giving  the  movie  maggots  an  assist.  Wouldn’t 
they  like  to  know!  But  go  easy  on  your  mis- 
spelling accusations.  We  had  to  make  a few 
corrections  in  your  epistle.  Poetic  “licence” 
is  not  spelled  with  an  “s” — also,  it  is  “con- 
sciously”, not  “conciously”,  “seniority”,  not 
“senority”,  “challenging”,  not  “challanging” 
and  “concur”,  not  “concurr”. 

We’re  asking  Sneary  to  send  you  his  spell- 
ing lexicon.  Tsk,  tsk! 

SILVER  LINING 

by  James  R.  Gray 

Dear  Editor:  “Shut  your  big,  fat  Startling,”  my  wife 
said,  “and  listen  to  me.  You’re  too  old  to  read  that 
stuff.” 

Regretfully  I put  down  the  November  issue  and 
argued  that,  if  life  begins  at  forty,  I was  then  only  six 
days  old.  This  made  no  impression,  so  I began  writing 
a letter  to  the  editor. 

My  wife  looked  over  my  shoulder.  “Is  there  any 
point  in  these  letters?”  she  asked  nastily. 

“My  good  woman,”  I said  haughtily,  “I’ll  have  you 
know  all  us  fans  put  a lot  of  deep  thought  into  our 
missives.  We  follow  a well-planned  system.  First,  we 
carry  around  a notebook,  putting  down  clever  ideas 
as  they  occur  to  us. 

“Then  two  months  pass  and  Startling  hits  the  stands. 
We  snatch  it  and  rush  home.  We  read  the  letter  sec- 
tion and  look  at  the  pictures.  No  need  to  read  the 
stories;  we  just  say  they  smell  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
Of  the  illustrations,  we  say  that  the  artists  are  ob- 
viously slipping.  We  always  pan  the  cover  pictures. 
We  end  up  by  making  insulting  remarks  about  other 
letter  writers.” 

“So  you  mail  your  letter  to  the  editor,”  my  wife 
said.  “Then  what  happens?” 

I saw  her  adjusting  the  small  lie-detector  on  her 
wrist,  so  I answered  sullenly,  “The  editor  probably 
throws  it  into  the  wastebasket.” 

Coolly  ignoring  her,  I went  on  with  my  letter.  The 
lead  novel  (I  said)  is  the  most  absorbing  thing 
Startling  has  published  since  Weinbaum’s  “The  Black 
Flame.”  Van  Vogt’s  “Dormant”  was  powerful  and 
satisfactory.  But  this  author  isn’t  at  his  best  with  short 
stories,  good  as  they  are.  He  really  gets  going  with 
his  long  hovels.  Get  him  to  write  us  one;  then  you’ll 


get  nothing  but  letters  of  praise — and  you’ll  think 
you’ve  gone  nuts,  SF  fans  being  what  they  are. 

HoF  novelet.  I thought,  more  interesting  than  Its 
predecessors.  Blurb  says.  "A  classic  reprinted  by 
popular  demand.”  Just  who  are  these  guys  that  keep 
demanding  reprints?  "Ring  Around  The  Redhead,” 
was  splendid;  hit  me  just  right.  Refreshing.  Wonder- 
ful. I liked  it.  All  the  other  stories  ranked  lower  with 
me  than  those  mentioned  above,  but  all  were  good. 
Not  a poor  story  in  the  lot.  All  in  all.  I reluctantly 
admit,  a nice  issue. 

I become  more  cheerful,  though,  as  I think  of  the 
cover.  I didn’t  like  it.  It  was  well  drawn.  The  gal  and 
the  guy  look  all  right.  But  that  mechanical  BEM  is 
unpleasant  looking.  Ruins  the  whole  thing.  I’m  serious, 
believe  me.  Oh  yes,  and  I have  another  gripe.  The 
staples  are  too  short,  or  something.  My  copy  came 
apart  on  me.  Those  staples  must  have  been  made  for 
the  mag  when  it  was  thinner. 

Haven’t  space  to  answer  all  the  letters  in  TEV.  But 
must  curl  the  upper  lip  at  Boyd  and  Wickenden.  They 
ask,  in  effect,  who  wants  to  see  undraped  girls?  Hahl 
Line  forms  to  the  right. — Box  H204.  Hartsh orrte,  Okla- 
homa. 

We  are  most  grateful  to  discover  our- 
selves listed  as  a “staple”  product! 

THAT  SAME  OLD  ENIGMA 

by  Helene  "Frenchy"  Ward 

Dear  Editor;  1 just  had  to  write.  I think  you  now 
print  some  of  the  finest  stories  in  your  SS  and  TWS 
magazines.  Your  stories  are  the  best  in  the  stfield,  but 
your  covers  are  the  worst.  The  very  first  thing  I do 
after  I buy  your  magazine  is  to  tear  off  the  cover  and 
toss  it  into  the  nearest  trash  container.  I long  ago  gave 
up  trying  to  explain  to  friends  and  relations  why  I 
read  "that  silly  trash". 

The  main  purpose  of  a magazine  cover  is  to  attract 
new  readers,  isn’t  it?  Glaring  clashing  colors,  horrible 
monsters  and  almost-naked  females  scare  away  the 
very  type  of  reader  who  would  most  enjoy  science 
fiction.  I shall  continue  to  buy  your  magazines,  no 
matter  what  kind  of  covers  you  put  on  them,  but  I 
think  you  are  frightening  away  potential  customers 
by  the  scores. 

That  idea  about  a Popular  Library  anthology  of 
science  fiction  is  wonderful.  I’ll  be  your  first  customer. 
— 2500*,4  Huntington  Avenue,  Newport  News,  Virginia. 

Sorry,  “Frenchy,”  we  still  like  those  covers 
that  give  you  the  shudders.  But  thanks  for 
having  sufficient  interest  to  write  and  tell  us. 

NON-DRUNKEN  TERRORS 

by  Alfred  G.  Kelley  AC3 

Dear  Ed:  If  you  had  told  me  four  months  ago  that 
I would  be  writing  to  you  the  result,  no  doubt,  would 
have  been  disastrous  indeed.  The  whole  thing  started 
around  four  months  ago  while  home  on  leave. 

My  friend,  and  an  ardent  fan  of  TWS,  Ed  Cox  of 
Lubec,  Maine,  which  is  also  my  home  town,  showed 
me  a copy  of  TWS  and  one  of  his  letters  printed  in 
that  issue.  That  was  the  beginning. 

My  first  impression  was  that  he  was  a little  daft  as 
the  cover,  if  typical  of  the  contents,  looked  like  the 
handwork  of  a madman,  to  say  the  least.  I jumped  the 
gun  though  for  since  that  time  I have  read  numerous 
stories  between  those  covers  and  I am  now  one  of 
that  daffy  group  myself.  Contrary  to  my  first  opinion 
many  of  the  authors  have  some  remarkable  ideas,  and 
now  I find  myself  eagerly  awaiting  each  month’s  pub- 
lication. Am  even  getting  a few  ideas  for  a story  of 
my  own,  of  course  I doubt  if  I could  ever  attain  the 
effects  of  those  past  masters  of  the  art  but  lots  of  fun 
to  be  had  trying. 

I am  no  critic  myself  but  will  endeavor  to  give  you 
my  opinion  on  November’s  issue  of  SS. 

Cover.  I’ve  never  had  the  drunken  terrors  but  I 
have  an  idea  of  what  they  are  like.  now.  Must  say 
that’s  a nice  work  of  art  in  the  lower  right  hand 
comer,  though.  Why  do  they  always  have  to  be 
screaming  and  teriflied?  The  monster,  or  is  it  a tin 
can  with  someone’s  glass  eye  in  it,  should  start  an 
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145 


Against  The  Fall  Of  Night.  Wonderful,  and  If  all  of 
his  stories  are  like  that  you  have  a new  fan. 

From  observing  the  letter  section  I think  I had 
better  wait  until  1 have  read  a few  more  issues  before 
I make  any  other  comments.  Reason  . . . they  all 
seemed  good  to  me. — Operation’s  Tower,  N.A.S., 
Patuxent  River,  Md. 

We  might  say  you  were  caught  in  the  daft 
— but  on  second  thought  we’d  better  not.  So 
we  won’t.  Send  along  your  yam  to  us  when 
you  get  it  finished.  We’ll  look  forward  to  its 
dissection. 

OUR  FAVORITE  BEM 

by  Georgia  Bartholomew 

Dear  Ed:  There  have  been  many  times  that  I was 
going  to  write  in  to  TEV,  but  I always  had  to  put  it 
off.  This  time  I am  going  to  get  this  one  into  the 
mail  if  it  is  the  last  thing  I do. 

The  last  straw  was  that  cover  pic  on  the  Nov.  ishl  I 
had  high  hopes  that  we  were  going  to  be  rid  of  the 
BEMS,  but  it  looks  like  I was  all  wet.  Talk  about 
Bug  Eyed  Monsters!  That  thing  on  the  cover  had 
enough  eyes  to  take  care  of  half  a dozen  monsters. 
Please,  pretty  please,  no  more  like  that.  All  I can 
say  for  the  girl  is  “a  typical  Bergey".  Nuff  said. 

Comes  now  the  stories:  No.  1:  Against  the  Fall  of 
Night,  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke.  One  of  the  best  novels 
that  I’ve  read  in  stf  in  a long  time.  This  certainly  calls 
for  a sequel  I think.  No.  2:  Ring  Around  the  Redhead, 
by  John  D.  MacDonald.  I can’t  quite  place  this  author, 
but  I like  his  style.  No.  3:  The  Unspeakable  Mclnch, 
by  Jack  Vance.  His  Magnus  Ridolph  series  is  among 
my  favorites.  More  please.  No.  4:  Humpty  Dumpty 
Had  A Great  Fall,  by  Frank  Belknap  Long.  Very 
interesting  reading.  No.  5:  The  Visitor,  by  Ray  Brad- 
bury. I don't  think  that  this  is  up  to  his  usual  stuff. 
He  has  written  much  better.  No.  6:  The  Stubborn 
Men.  by  Robert  Moore  Williams.  All  I can  say  is  no 
more  like  this  Mr.  Williams.  Please! 

The  HoF  story  was  good  as  always.  That  is,  almost 
always.  The  Isotope  Men  is  the  best  that  I have  ever 
read  by  Festus  Pragnell. 

The’ inside  pics  were  all  good,  so  I won’t  say  any 
more  about  them. 

Of  course  the  best  feature  of  the  book  as  always  is 
TEV.  It  is  even  better  since  it  has  been  enlarged. 
Hope  it  stays  that  way. 

I sure  would  like  to  find  some  fans  to  write  to  and 
exchange  opinions  with.  I love  to  write  letters  and  if 
they  were  about  my  favorite  subject,  ie:  stf.,  I could 
really  let  myself  go.  I can  promise  to  answer  all 
letters  as  soon  as  received. — 745  Haight  St.  #9,  San 
Francisco,  California. 

You’ll  probably  get  them — correspondents, 
we  mean.  The  almost  continuous  assault  up- 
on our  favorite  cover  BEM  leading  the  No- 
vember issue  is  rapidly  reducing  us  to  a 
state  of  traumatic  shock.  Dammit,  we  liked 
the  little  beast! 

ANTHOLOGY,  PLEASE! 

by  Samuel  John  Sackett 

Dear  Editor:  Since  the  company  which  puts  out 
your  magazine  also  puts  out  the  Popular  Library 
series,  why  don’t  you  get  together?  Your  magazine 
and  your  sister  magazine  have  printed  some  rather 
fine  stories  and,  I’m  pleased  to  note,  are  continuing 
to  do  so.  You  have  enough  of  a selection  of  recent 
stories  to  put  out  an  anthology  of  science  fiction 
under  the  Popular  Library  imprint  and,  in  addition, 
some  books  of  short  story  collections  by  the  various 
authors  whose  work  has  graced  your  pages.  Perhaps 
one  Popular  Library  book  could  contain  two  of  your 
short  novels. 

I’d  like  to  see  Popular  Library  print  (1)  a s-f 
anthology  from  the  pages  of  Startling  and  TWS;  (2) 
a book  of  short  stories  by  Herny  Kuttner;  (3)  a col- 
lection each  of  Edmond  Hamilton,  Murray  Leinster. 


Ray  Bradbury  and  George  Whitley,  all  authors  you 
have  printed  probably  in  quantity  enough  to  fill  books 
of  their  works  from  the  pages  of  your  magazine.  And 
between  s-f  and  the  crime  stories  appearing  in  Mystery 
Book  you  should  be  able  to  get  a collection  of  Fredric 
Brown. 

Your  choice  could  be  made  from  the  vote  of  your 
readers,  if  you  wanted  to  go  to  that  much  trouble.  I 
have  some  nominations  myself  out  of  the  most  recent 
copies  of  both  magazines  and  others  on  your  chain; 
but  since  I’m  a recent  fan  my  knowledge  doesn’t  go 
back  enough  in  time  to  make  good  choices  with  per- 
spective. Here  they  are,  for  anyone  who’s  interested: 
Kuttner:  CURSE  OF  THE  COBRA  (ThMys  Sept  42). 
TROPHY  (TWS  ? 43),  SWORD  OF  TOMORROW 
(TWS  Fall  45),  VALLEY  OF  THE  FLAME  (SS  Mar 

46) ,  THE  DARK  ANGEL  (SS  Mar  46).  THE  DARK 
WORLD  (SS  Sum  46),  CALL  HIM  DEMON  (TWS 
Fall  46),  LANDS  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKE  (SS  May 

47) .  DON’T  LOOK  NOW  (SS  Mar  48). 

Hamilton:  THE  ISLAND  OF  UNREASON  (SS  Spr 

45),  THE  MAN  WITH  X-RAY  EYES  (SS  Sum  46). 
COME  HOME  FROM  EARTH  (TWS  Feb  47),  TRANS- 
URANIC  (TWS  Feb  48). 

Leinster:  INCIDENT  ON  CALYPSO  (SS  Fall  45). 
THE  DISCIPLINARY  CIRCUIT  (TWS  Win  46),  DEAD 
CITY  (TWS  Sum  46).  THE  MAN  IN  THE  IRON  CAP 
(SS  Nov  47). 

Bradbury:  PROMOTION  TO  SATELLITE  (TWS  Fall 
43),  THE  IRRITATED  PEOPLE  (TWS  Dec  47).  THE 
SHAPE  OF  THINGS  (TWS  Feb  48). 

Brown:  LEGACY  OF  MURDER  (ExMys  1:1),  I'LL 
CUT  YOUR  THROAT  AGAIN,  KATHLEEN  (MysBook 
Win  48),  A VOICE  BEHIND  HIM  (MysBook  Jan  47). 
OBIT  FOR  OBIE  (MysBook  Oct  46). 

Whitley:  ONE  CAME  BACK  (TWS  Fall  45). 

TRAVELER’S  TALE  (SS  Jan  47). 

Heinlein : COLUMBUS  WAS  A DOPE  (SS.  May  47). 
JERRY  IS  A MAN  (TWS  Oct  47). 

That’s  the  idea,  do  with  it  what  you  will.  Frankly, 
if  there’s  anything  I can  do  toward  realizing  my  idea, 
if  you  decide  to  adopt  it,  consider  my  services  offered. 
I take  rather  a paternal  interest  in  the  project. 

And  a further  suggestion:  How  about  a biographical 
sketch  in  each  of  the  collections? 

And  a point:  Wouldn’t  it  be  perhaps  cheaper,  be- 
cause although  you’d  still  have  to  pay  the  authors 
for  the  use  of  their  material,  you  wouldn’t  have  to 
pay  yourself? — Route  #2.  Box  24.  Redlands,  California. 

We’re  dreaming  too,  Sam.  And  perhaps, 
some  day  in  the  reasonably  near  future,  we 
may  achieve  at  least  partial  reality.  Un- 
fortunately Popular  Library  is  currently 
booked  far  ahead — but  that  won’t  last  for- 
ever and,  needless  to  say,  plans  such  as  you 
offer  are  already  under  discussion. 

Braid  your  toes  and  keep  the  old  fingers 
crossed. 

Re  your  title  suggestions — for  Kuttner, 
how  about  the  Hogben  series  in  TWS  and 
his  riotous  BETTER  THAN  ONE  in  one  of 
the  final  issues  of  CAPTAIN  FUTURE? 
Hamilton’s  file  is  too  large  for  discussion 
here  and  now.  As  for  Leinster,  don’t  forget 
the  two  sequels  to  THE  DISCIPLINARY 
CIRCUIT,  THE  MANLESS  WORLDS  and 
THE  BOOMERANG  CIRCUIT.  Also 
THINGS  PASS  BY,  POCKET  UNIVERSES 
and  many  others. 

We  are  rapidly  assembling  an  increasing 
number  of  Bradbury  tales,  many  of  them 
not  yet  published.  And  we  have  done  our 
darnedest  to  start  him  on  a novel,  which  we 
hope  he  is  working  on.  It  should  be  an  in- 
teresting experiment  and,  if  successful,  an 
epoch  maker. 

146 


As  for  Brown,  don’t  omit  WHAT  MAD 
UNIVERSE  (SS,  September,  1948)  DEAD 
MAN’S  INDEMNITY  ( Mystery  Book  Mag- 
azine, which  appeared  in  book  form  as  THE 
FABULOUS  CLIPJOINT  and  won  him  an 
“Edgar”  from  the  Mystery  Writers  of  Amer- 
ica last  year)  and  THE  JABBERWOCKY 
MURDERS  ( Thrilling  Mystery,  Summer, 
1944). 

Yes,  when  the  time  comes,  we’ll  have  a 
rich  treasury  to  delve  into. 

AND  NOW  HE'S  HEP! 

by  Marvin  Williams 

Dear  Ed:  This  Arthur  Clarke  is  a hep  character.  I 
liked  AGAINST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT  all  over  the 
place.  It  was  pretty  nearly  as  good  as  the  VALLEY 
OF  CREATION.  I've  said  it  before  and  I didn’t  get 
printed,  and  I'll  say  it  again  and  hope  it  does. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  CREATION  WAS  THE  BEST 
STORY  SS  OR  ANY  OTHER  STF  MAG  IN  CIRCULA- 
TION HAS  EVER  PRINTED— see? 

Now  I know  there'll  be  some  who  will  laff  at  this 
and  mentions  lots  of  others  that  were  better,  and  I 
know  that  I have  only  been  reading  stf  in  pulp  form 
for  four  years,  but  I can't  possibly  see  how  anything 
could  be  better.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  have  that  issue 
of  SS  cloth  bound  so  that  it  will  hold  together  longer 
than  most  of  the  mags.  I can’t  think  of  that  story 
falling  apart. 

Second  in  the  November  issue,  was  MacDonald’s 
RING  AROUND  THE  REDHEAD.  I was  nauseated  by 
the  illo’,  but  the  story  was  slicker  than  a Martian’s 
earlobe.  Really  classy. 

I couldn’t  catch  hold  of  the  interest  fiber  in  THE 
ISOTOPE  MEN  to  save  my  ...  . Ahem.  It  didn’t  seem 
to  have  what  it  should  for  a hall  of  fame  yam. 

As  for  the  shorts,  needless  to  say  THE  VISITOR 
was  good.  I’m  just  realizing  that  Bradbury  never 
writes  a bad  story.  I am  getting  to  the  point  where  I 
just  know  that  I’m  going  to  like  the  yam  even  before 
I start  to  read  It. 

I’d  like  to  give  Ray  a free  plug  on  your  time  here  if 
you’ll  permit.  His  THE  WOMEN  in  a competitor  of 
yours  was  something  to  rave  about.  Zowwie!  What  a 
weird  enchanting  story.  It  mildly  hinted  that  when  a 
man  drowns  he  is  drawn  by  the  beauty  of  the  sea 
into  his  death.  That  is  bosh,  of  course,  but  the  yam 
was  still  good. 

Give  the  old  kitchen  clock  to  Astra  Zimmer.  Zimmer 
is  zimmering  with  gas  this  time.  It  was  a good  issue, 
the  July.  '48.  It  was  infinitely  better  than  this  one. 

I think  that  winds  up  this  little  session.  I can’t 
think  of  anything  to  slam  at  so  I guess  I’ll  have  to 
close  up  and  get  to  other  things. — 1431  2nd  Avenue, 
S.E.,  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa. 

Could  it  be  that  you  have  a bit  of  the  wolf 
in  you,  Marvin — what  with  your  expressed 
devotion  to  the  Hamilton  wolf-yam?  Seri- 
ously, we  liked  it  too  or  we’d  not  have 
bought  it. 


CLEANLINESS 

WHAT? 

by  Bob  Farnham 


IS  NEXT  TO— 


; just  finished  Against  The  Fall 
IT  A STORY!  WHAT  A STORY! 


Dear  Editor:  I have 
of  Night— Clarke.  WHA'i 
1 was  taking  a bath  when  the  wife  handed  me  my 
Issue  of  Startling  Stories,  and  I sat  in  that  blasted 
tub  for  2 hours  till  I finished  the  story!  Where  did  you 
find  this  Clarke?  He  rates  on  the  same  level  with 
Hamilton  and  Brett  Sterling,  who  did  the  Captain 
Future  tales.  I sure  hope  you  have  Clarke  again — and 
real  soon  too!  I am  going  to  excerpt  Clarke’s  story 
for  my  collection. 

iTurn  page ] 


TO  PEOPLE 
Who  Want  To  Write 

but  can't  get  started 

Do  you  have  that  constant  urge  to  write 
but  the  fear  that  a beginner  hasn’t  a 
chance  ? Then  listen  to  what  the  former 
editor  of  Liberty  said  on  this  subject: 

** There  is  more  room  for  newcomers  in  the  writing  field 
today  than  ever  before . Some  of  the  greatest  of  writing 
men  and  women  have  passed  from  the  scene  in  recent 
years . Who  will  take  their  places?  Who  will  be  the  new 
Robert  W.  Chambers , Edgar  Wallace , Rudyard  Kipling? 
Fame,  riches  and  the  happiness  of  achievement  await  the 
new  men  and  women  of  power** 

Sells  95  Stories 
and  Novelettes 

'The  introduction  you  gave  me  to 
your  editor  friend,  resulting  in  my 
present  assignment  to  do  a complete 
novel  for  him  monthly,  13  doubly  ap- 
preciated, especially  since  I finished 
my  N.I.A.  training  some  time  ago* 
and,  consequently,  have  no  call  oa 
your  service.  Here  is  concrete  evi- 
dence that  interest  in  your  students 
continues  indefinitely.  To  date  now,  I 
have  sold  95  stories  and  novelettes  to 
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I can  make  no  comment  on  the  other  stories.  They 
were  all  of  such  a high  grade  that  to  comment  on 
them  would  be  superfluous. 

The  cover  was  not  too  bad  either  but  Bergey  should 
have  put  a sweater  on  the  gal  too.  Some  gals  are  cold- 
hearted,  but  they  need  clothes  as  well  as  any  one  else. 
Not  a bad  cover  at  all! 

All  In  all.  Ed.,  a slam-bang  perfect  issue! — 1139  East 
44th  Street,  Chicago  IS,  Illinois. 

‘Tis  a good  thing  you  didn’t  drown,  Bob, 
or  Bergey  would  have  had  no  defenders  at 
all — to  speak  of,  that  is. 

SEARLEY 

by  Bill  Searles 

Dear  Editor:  This  is  probably  too  late  to  be  printed, 
but  I don’t  care.  I had  to  write  you  about  that  mar- 
velous story  "Against  the  Fall  of  Night”.  1 think  It  is 
the  best  thing  SS  or  TWS  has  ever  printed,  not  ex- 
cepting Kuttner,  Hamilton,  etc. 

In  fact,  you  seemed  to  go  all  out  this  issue.  A super- 
duper  HoF  story — "The  Isotope  Men”  will  shut  up 
those  people  who  want  to  get  rid  of  the  HoF.,  I bet. 
The  shorts  were  good,  too,  except — "The  Stubborn 
men”.  And  Bradbury  has  done  better.  As  for  Van 
Vogt,  he's  no  favorite  of  mine,  so  n/c. 

Even  the  cover  was  -good,  except  for  two  minor 
points:  (a)  She  doesn't  look  old  enough  to  have  a 
son  of  (???)  years,  (b)  Alvin  looks  more  like  a dwarf 
than  a boy.  Sideburns,  yet! 

While  reading  a '44  SS,  recently,  I found  only  two 
names  in  TEV  that  I recognized.  Chad  Olive  and  Joke. 
Wonder  where  all  these  people  will  be  in  '52? — 617 
57 th  Street,  West  Palm  Beach,  Fla. 

The  "she”  in  question  evidently  had  a few 
futuristic  beauty  secrets  at  her  disposal.  As 
for  your  where-are-the-snows-of -yesteryear 
query  anent  fan  letter  writers,  we’ve  won- 
dered about  it  too.  The  turnover,  during  any 
one  year,  is  pretty  heavy.  And  they  seldom 
if  ever  come  back  once  they’ve  strayed  from 
the  fold.  However,  new  epistleers  keep  crop- 
ping up  to  take  up  the  slack. 

PERTH  OF  THE  MATTER 

by  Roger  N.  Dard 

Dear  Editor:  When  the  war  ended  and  I had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  the  post  war  science  fiction 
prozines  from  the  U.S.A.,  1 was  very  disappointed, 
for  with  one  exception,  I felt  these  magazines  were 
far  below  the  standard  of  the  pre-war  days.  The  one 
exception  was  STARTLING  STORIES,  which  I found 
every  bit  as  good  as  it  had  ever  been,  although  much 
slimmer  in  size — presumably  due  to  paper  shortage. 

I will  not  comment  upon  recent  stories  I have  read, 
as  I am  afraid  my  comments  would  be  dated  by  the 
time  you  receive  this  letter.  I will  say  this  however, 
your  Hall  of  Fame  reprints  are  the  goods — in  fact  I 
would  like  to  see  one  issue  a year,  or  even  quarterly, 
devoted  entirely  to  reprints.  How  about  it.  Sarge? 

Just  one  complaint,  Mr.  Editor — why  on  earth  don’t 
you  get  your  grand  magazine  onto  the  Australian 
market?  I personally  have  no  kick,  as  I get  STAR- 
TLING from  a friend  in  the  U.S.,  but  there  must  be 
thousands  of  potential  STARTLING  fans  in  this  coun- 
try, who  have  never  made  the  acquaintance  of  your 
prozine. 

In  conclusion  I would  like  to  say  that  I will  alway* 
be  glad  to  hear  from  stf  fans  everywhere. — 232  James 
Street,  Perth,  Western  Australia. 

You’ll  probably  be  hearing  from  the  Syd- 
ney Futurians,  who  are  a highly  organized 
fan  group,  Roger.  As  to  our  Australian  cir- 
culation, we  don’t  know  just  what  the  hitch 
is  or  who’s  causing  it.  But  they  seem  to  get 


us  in  Sydney.  Let’s  hear  from  you  again. 
And  why  should  your  comment  be  dated? 
Aren’t  you  a day  ahead  of  us? 

NEWSSTANDIA 

by  Wilkie  Conner 

Dear  Editor:  The  November  issue  of  Startling  was  a 
bit  late  reaching  the  muddy  shores  of  Gastonia — 
probably  because  the  local  newsdealers  are  disin- 
terested in  their  wares  and  don't  care  whether  they 
display  anything  except  comic  books  and  kindred 
stuff.  So  the  really  readable  literature  gets  a back 
seat. 

I can  think  of  only  one  newsstand  in  town  that 
gives  a hoot  about  giving  proper  display  to  the  s-f 
and  fantasy  publications.  Only  one  newsstand  and 
one  drug  store  that  give  proper  display.  The  rest  wait 
until  there  is  a break  in  the  comic  book  display,  then 
put  them  out.  However,  all  of  them  were  late  this 
time  in  receiving  and  displaying  dear  old  Startling! 

Speaking  of  newsstands,  besides  a dozen  drug  stores, 
there  are  half  a dozen  full  time  newsstands  in  uptown 
Gastonia.  Of  all  the  other  stf  books  published,  only  SS 
and  TWS  are  available  on  all  of  the  racks!  It  is  pos- 
sible to  buy  the  others  from  time  to  time  by  skipping 
around  town  and  hunting  them  up,  but  SS  and  TWS 
are  available — eventually — on  EVERY  stand.  Which 
is  a compliment  to  your  quality.  Most  of  our  magazine 
dealers  handle  regularly  only  those  books  that  sell 
best.  Since  SS  and  TWS  are  available  everywhere, 
they  must  sell  better  than  the  rest! 

Oh,  yes!  That  title  you  hung  onto  my  letter  In  the 
November  issue:  THE  CORN  BELT!  So  my  stuff  is 
corny,  eh?  Listen,  twerp,  if  I knew  a good  lawyer, 
I’d  sue  you  for  that  slander.  Corny,  my  aunt's  wig!  A 
pox  on  you.  sir! 

A.  E.  Van  Vogt’s  Dormant  wins  the  cigar  in  the 
story  race.  Next  is  Humpty  Dumpty  Had  A Great  Fall 
by  F.  B.  Long.  Third  place  goes  to  the  novel.  Ray 
Bradbury's  The  Visitor  rates  number  four.  The  others 
are  tied  for  fifth  place. 

With  their  increased  length,  the  HoF  stories  are 
improving.  I would  like  to  see  some  more  of  Kuttner's 
early  stuff.  Some  of  it  I missed  and  I would  like  to 
read  it. 

On  to  TEV:  Still  no  pic  of  “Astra.”  Guess  we'll  have 
to  be  patient,  all  we  "panting  Paganinis.”  I agree  with 
Ed  Cox  on  the  possibility  of  using  stf  in  the  Popular 
Library  series.  There  are  many,  many  long  novels 
from  SS  and  TWS  that  could  be  expanded  to  make 
interesting  reading  in  that  series  For  instance:  “When 
New  York  Vanished”.  “The  Infinite  Moment”.  There 
are  dozens.  You  name  'em!  Glad  to  see  more  ladies 
getting  into  the  act.  Love  those  gals! — 1618  McFarland 
Avenue.  Gastonia,  North  Carolina. 

Hereafter,  suh,  we  shall  refer  to  your  more 
barnyard  products  as  maize.  And  that  will 
have  to  do. 

WOT— NO  BLASTERS? 

by  John  King 

Dear  Ed:  It  took  a combination  of  events  to  stir 
this  SF  fan  from  languid  spectatorism  (ha!)  to  a 
feeble  attempt  at  letter  writing.  Bergey’s  cover  outdid 
itself — it  should  win  first  prize  in  any  poster  painting 
contest. 

The  lead  story  ....  ah,  that  lead  story!  At  last  a 
modem  writer  who  can  turn  out  a story  that  brings 
back  the  old  days  when  even  the  writers  of  science 
fiction  seemed  to  be  searching  for  ....  well  for 
something.  With  the  story  still  warm  in  my  mind,  I 
can’t  recall  a single  blaster  blasting  someone,  or  even 
one  little  atom  bomb  atomizing  a city. 

When  they  get  “Against  The  FON”  into  book  form, 
you  can  be  sure  that  I’ll  be  right  up  there  at  the 
head  of  the  line  to  get  my  copy.  Orchids  to  Mr.  Clarke 
and  to  the  thoughtful  Ed  for  getting  a humdinger  for 
the  mag. 

The  illustrations  were  very  good  (I  guess  they  were 
by  Stevens — rule  of  thumb:  if  it  looks  like  Finlay  it 
must  be  Stevens),  the  only  complaint — not  enough. 
There  were  a few  other  scenes  that  would  make  dam 
good  pics.  Oh  well,  let  it  pass.  I feel  too  good  to  argue. 

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few  smellers  in  the  issue.  "The  Stubborn  Men"  . . . . 
ugh  ....  they  must  have  been  stubborn  to  get  you 
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Humpty  Dumpty,  though  discouraging  of  title, 
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Glad  to  see  Van  Vogt  In  SS.  Not  up  to  par  with 
Dormant,  sorry  to  say.  He  must  have  dashed  this  oil 
before  his  morning  dose  of  (coffee,  soma,  cocaine, 
zeno,  Ex-Lax),  whichever  he  uses. 

“Ring  Around  the  Redhead”  . . . pardon  me  while 
I turn  the  page,  as  Victor  Borge  says. 

The  HoF  selection  was  better  than  usual,  but  I still 
can’t  figure  out  the  connection  between  the  story  and 
Finlay’s  pic.  Not  that  it  matters  much  of  course. 
Finlay  can  do  no  wrong. 

“The  Visitor”  was  excellent  and  the  more  of  Brad- 
bury I read,  the  more  convinced  I become  that  he  is 
the  most  original  of  the  Sf  short  story  writers.  Let’s 
see  more  of  Ray. 

“The  Unspeakable  Mclnch”  was  immature  in  execu- 
tion. I had  come  to  expect  more  of  the  MR  series,  but 
maybe  Vance  will  buckle  down. 

And  last  on  the  list  comes  TEV.  This  is  one  section 
on  which  no  comment  should  be  made,  since  it  is  all 
comments,  but  I would  like  to  know  where  I can  get 
a large  magnifying  glass  so  I can  read  the  dam  things. 

If  the  rest  of  the  new  issues  are  as  good  as  this  one, 
as  a whole,  though,  you’ll  be  hearing  the  merry 
tinkle  of  my  quarters  at  the  old  newsstand  for  a 
long  time. — 1608  Jerry  Lind  Street,  McKeesport,  Penn- 
sylvania. 


Very  nice,  very  nice  indeed,  John.  Let’s 
hope  we  hit  the  combination  again,  both 
soon  and  often. 


OMIGAWSH! 

by  Frances  Keysor 


Dear  Ed:  1 don’t  think  I’ll  send  you  a poem  this 
time;  you  worry  too  much  about  meter  and  rhyme. 
We  all  do  the  amateur  best  that  we  can  while  you  sit 
and  mumble  "Iambic  and  scan"! 

I'm  high  in  the  hills  'mid  the  oaks  and  the  pines 
where  the  scenery’s  unmarred  by  billboards  or  signs. 
Six  trips  to  the  city  without  much  success,  ten  miles 
by  grape-vine  plus  seven,  no  less!  I come  back  down- 
hearted and  with  empty  hands,  just  when  does  this 
Mag  hit  the  stands? 

Aha,  and  oh  joy,  when  I’d  given  up  hope,  I finally 
discovered  my  favorite  dope  I And  there  was  the  cover 
with  Bern,  Guy  and  Gal,  with  colors  all  flashy,  in- 
tended to  sell!  (?)  Now  I'm  sure  that  Bergey  does 
not  mean  to  bore,  but  just  where  have  I seen  that 
blond  babe  before? 

As  usual,  first  I read  TEV.  A quarter  for  Sneary’s 
nice  words  about  me!  I laughed  long  and  loud  over 
Schamburger’s  slip,  and  I say  to  you,  Joe-  better  luck 
next  trip!  This  guy,  Haliburton — oft  with  nis  head!  Or 
better  yet,  rattlesnakes  put  in  his  bed!  He  says  "NO 
more  letters,"  then  why  does  he  write?  I’ll  bet  his  is 
framed  and  he  reads  it  all  night!  A pox  upon  Wilmot 
and  his  prattling  letter  1 We  "prattling  females"  can 
prattle  much  better! 

So  now  to  the  stories;  for  better  or  worse,  I’ll  try 
to  berate  them  in  my  limping  verse. 

Fanfare  and  trumpets!  And  hip,  hip,  hooray!  Salud, 
skoal  or  bravo,  as  others  might  say.  All  this  I thought 
(as  I read  with  delight)  of  Clarke’s  super  tale 
"Against  the  Fall  of  Night.”  Such  beauty  in  words  so 
seldom  is  found;  T’was  like  majestic  breakers  crash- 
ing the  sound!  The  plot,  it  was  feeble,  but  not  to  dis- 
traction; it  still  held  me  spell-bound  down  to  the  last 
fraction.  No  love  interest  there — so  Wilmot  take  heed. 
No  "prattling  females”  and  none  did  it  need. 

Mr.  Frank  Belknap  Long  sure  drew  a big  blank, 
for  his  “Humpty  Dumpty”  most  certainly  stank!  I’ve 
loved  Mother  Goose  for  these  many  long  years,  and 
he  paints  a picture  of' cruelty  and  tears! 

Now  the  HoF  story  rates  a big  "Wheel”  for  accurate 
predicting  in  ’33.  The  rest  of  the  Mag’s  like  the  neck 
of  the  chicken  with  nothing  much  there  and  not 
worth  the  pickin’. 

By  now,  my  dear  Ed.,  I’ll  bet  you  are  fuming:  your 
eyes  nicely  crossed,  your  brain-matter  booming. 
There,  there,  my  dear  fellow,  why  couldn’t  you  guess 


that  sooner  or  later  would  come  such  a mess? — Berry 
Creek,  Calif. 

We  can  only  remark  to  Miss  Berry  Hill,  in 
passing  as  ’twere,  that  she’s  quite  a Jill. 
“Iambic  and  scan” — anapaestic  indeed  is  the 
beat  of  this  meter  to  those  who  give  heed. 
Her  critiques  are  sharp  though  her  prat- 
tlings  are  shrill  but  the  quarter  she  paid  was 
raked  in  at  the  till.  However,  when  taking 
the  editor’s  view,  a poor  point  of  vantage 
that’s  slightly  askew,  we’re  really  unable  to 
say  which  is  worse — whether  Frances  should 
write  us  in  or  out  of  verse. 

DOWN  UNDER  BRIEF 

by  H.  L.  Stapleton 

Dear  Sir:  To  hand  the  August  issue  of  Thrilling 
Wonder  Stories  and  the  September  issue  of  Startling 
Stories.  These  have  now  been  duly  read  and  I have 
been  duly  thrilled  with  wonder  and  duly  startled. 
Thank  you. — 30  Hatrick  Street,  Wanganui,  New  Zea- 
land. 

Sounds  like  a dule  existence.  Write  ua 
again  at  greater  length,  man. 

A PALM  FROM  PALMER 

by  Rodney  Palmer 

Dear  Editor:  The  quality  of  Startling  has  improved 


so  much  In  the  last  year  or  so  that  I've  been  haunting 
the  stands  days  and  weeks  ahead  of  time  trying  to 
catch  a coveted  glimpse  of  the  revered  liUe.  When  the 


great  day  finally  arrived,  had  to  fight  my  way  past  a 
orde  of  horror  story  fans  and  it  was  with  very  little 
surprise  I discovered  we  were  batUing  for  the  same 
magazine.  That  cover  again. 

But  seriously,  this  time  it  wasn’t  so  bad  at  all — the 
one-eyed  robot  with  entwining  tentacles  brings  back 
a nostalgic  memory  of  happier  days  when  authors 
were  content  with  half-a-cent  a word  and  circulation 
was  sacrificed  to  cover-quality.  Oh  well.  And  I may 
well  repeat:  The  cover  this  issue,  in  the  old  tradition, 
was  okey. 

Now  I have  what  might  be  considered  a new  ap- 
proach to  the  old  question  “What  makes  the  science- 
fiction  fan  read  science-fiction,  and  in  such  large 
doses?” 

I would  myself  consider  the  fan  a chronic  worrier, 
with  what  may  or  may  not  be  an  over- exaggerated 
opinion  of  the  importance  of  his  actions  upon  future 
events.  Thus  constant  assurance  is  required  that  the 
future  bodes  little  ill,  that  when  one  door  closes  an- 
other opens,  that  everything  turns  out  for  the  best 
and,  in  other  words,  that  what  he  does  will  in  the  end 
affect  the  world  cataclysmically,  yet  not  detrimentally. 

We  differ  perhaps  from  the  average  fiction  fiend  in 
our  more  extensive  ability  to  picture  the  far  flung 
havoc  which  we  in  our  little  daily  lives  are  bound  to 
cause  just  by  living.  There  must  be  a psychological 
word  for  it,  and  though  I may  be  wrong  the  concept 
is  worth  the  average  fans’  considering. 

Beyond  the  cover  this  month  we  find  the  possibilities 
of  a super  issue  but  we  cannot  be  sure.  The  opening 
chapters  of  Arthur  C.  Clarke’s  novel  look  good.  Brad- 
bury's usual  travesty  on  science-fiction  must  needs 
assume  first  place  withal  on  merit  of  pure  genius 
combined  with  craftsmanship.  The  man  has  no  con- 
science, the  way  he  takes  old  themes  long  in  disuse, 
other  authors  having  discarded  them  as  sucked  dry  of 
potentiality,  and  creates  a work  of  art.  It  is  the  way 
of  change. 

I’ve  already  read  six  of  his  stories  which  dealt  with 
nothing  more,  in  essence,  than  "the  first  landing  on 
Mars"  and  they  were  all  epics.  What  more  can  be 
said..  He  at  least  proves  that  the  fringes  only  of 
science  fiction  plotting  have  been  touched.  A laurel  to 
him,  though  his  obviously  troubled  outlook  makes  me 
wince. 

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Robert  Moore  Williams  is  disappointing  this  time 
with  THE  STUBBORN  MEN,  though  he  has  an  idea 
there  worth  expressing.  I think  most  fans  will  agree 
Bob  does  best  on  longer  stories — I still  wait  patiently 
for  another  WORLD  BEYOND  THE  SKY.  Jack  Vance 
improves  again  with  Magnus  Ridolph  and  THE  UN- 
SPEAKABLE MC’INCH.  What  happened  to  the  Vance 
who  wrote  THE  WORLD-THINKER?  It’s  a tough  deal, 
swallowing  Ridolph  (who  makes  fairly  decent  filler) 
when,  from  that  first  novelet,  we  expected  great 
things. 

On  that  Fem-Fans-in-science-flction  business:  The 
girls  are  fun  to  have  around,  supplying  as  they  do 
the  social-amenities  necessary  in  any  gathering.  Their 
opinions,  though  always  a puzzle  to  me,  are  interesting 
to  read,  and  least  of  all  would  I have  them  discour- 
aged from  writing  in.  But  an  attempt  to  please  both 
audiences  in  a single  story  is  bound  to  weaken  the 
yam  from  both  sides.  Dividing  the  mag  equally  is 
about  the  only  answer,  but  not  dividing  the  story. 
And  so  we  sign  off. — 226  West  60th  Street,  Chicago 
21,  Illinois. 

Your  description  of  your  conception  of  the 
average  (whatever  that  is)  fan  makes  him 
sound  like  a prospective  megalomaniac 
Which  could  quite  possibly  be  correct.  And 
which  is  quite  all  right  with  us,  who  find 
sanity  a dull  thing  at  best. 

MORE  LOVECRAFTANIA 

by  Mrs.  Muriel  E.  Eddy 

Editor  Startling  Stories:  I've  been  so  interested  in 
the  many  letters  re:  Lovecraft.  Here  in  Providence, 
R.I.,  folks  call  me  an  authority  on  Howard  Phillips 
Lovecraft,  because  my  husband  and  I knew  him  inti- 
mately for  many  years.  We  were  aware  of  his  many 
idiosyncrasies  and  we  loved  him! 

We  knew  he  was  allergic  to  fish — so  we  never 
served  him  fish  or  any  sea  food!  We  knew  he  enjoyed 
the  white  baked  meat  of  chicken — and  cheese.  He 
loved  chocolates  and  when  he  married  Sonia  Greene 
in  1924  his  two  aunts  gave  our  children  over  100 
empty  chocolate  boxes  to  play  with!  (In  fact,  a bath- 
tub full!)  We  used  an  old  gas-plate  Lovecraft  formerly 
brewed  his  coffee  on,  for  a long  time. 

We  remember  how  dearly  this  famous  author  of  the 
weird  and  uncanny  loved  coffee  with  many  spoon- 
fuls of  sugar!  Many  a night  we  listened  to  Lovecraft 
reading  his  original  manuscripts — and  enjoyed  the 
facial  expressions  that  played  over  his  unusually 
mobile  features  as  he  read  aloud  with  many  a thea- 
tric gesture! 

I’d  be  glad  to  furnish  readers  with  any  information 
on  Lovecraft  I am  able  to — and  in  the  meantime  I’ll 
just  say  I do  enjoy  "STARTLING  STORIES”  and  the 
November  issue  was  EXCEPTIONALLY  fine!  I LOVE 
your  illustrations  and  covers! — 125  Pearl  Street,  Provi- 
dence 7,  Rhode  Island. 

Which  reminds  us  a little  of  Dunsany’s 
satiric  short  play — “Fame  and  the  Poet.” 
And  something  about  that  bath-tub  crammed 
with  empty  chocolate  boxes  gives  us  a sort 
of  post-diabetic  sensation.  But  Lovecraft 
fans  may  copy  at  will. 

NO  JIBE 

by  Ed  Cox 

Dear  Editor:  It  seems  that  I had  hardly  finished 
writing  a letter  to  you  about  TWS  and  along  comes 
the  new  SS.  As  good  as  having  a monthly  magazine! 

The  cover  is  puzzling.  It  doesn’t  quite  jibe  with  the 
story  in  that  It  is  a grown  man  being  taken  (?)  away 
and  that  the  woman  seems  to  be  joyful  because  the 
robot  is  depositing  him!  See? 

It  is  trivial,  however,  so  now  I’ll  commence  to  rave 
about  the  wonderful  AGAiNST  THE  FALL  OF  NIGHT. 
A really  entertaining  story  and  a bit  thought-provok- 
ing too.  There  is  so  much  I’d  like  to  say  about  it  but 
152 


it  would  take  up  too  much  space  and  then  there's  the 
rest  of  the  magazine  too.  So,  thanks  to  you  and  Clarke 
for  it! 

Robert  Moore  Williams’  little  yam  is  sobering.  Just 
start  to  think  of  how  little  we  really  know  about  the 
atom  and  enlarge  upon  that  fact  with  the  frightening 
possibilities  from  this  story. 

What’s  come  over  Frank  B.  Long?  This  is  wonderful! 
Another  one  of  his  “children”  stories,  yet  in  a manner 
much  different  from  Bradbury’s.  The  writing  could 
be  termed  “deliberate”.  Or  so  it  strikes  me  the  way 
he  twists  the  Mother  Goose  stories  into  this  striking 
fantasy.  More  shouted  the  multitude! 

It  is  with  unbounded  joy  that  I see  my  favorite  of 
favorite  authors,  Alfred  van  Vogt  in  SS!  DORMANT 
(which  is  much  better  than  “The  Third  One”  and 
“Iilah”)  is  typical  Van!  That  heart-stopping  ending! 
Wow!  I can  hardly  wait  for  “The  Weapon  Shops  of 
Isher”  in  TWS!  I hope  he’ll  be  appearing  steadily 
now! 

RING  AROUND  THE  REDHEAD  was  a very  en- 
joyable story.  I like  MacDonald’s  writing  very  much 
and  this  is  the  best  yet!  More! 

I can  now  see  and  appreciate  what  you  said  about 
giving  the  Hall  of  Fame  more  space  so  we  can  have 
better  stories.  Pragnell’s  story  was  quite  good.  Didn't 
seem  a bit  dated  in  content  or  style.  Illustration  was 
irrelevant  to  the  story.  One  confusing  thing  in  the 
story  is  that  the  planet  was  always  referred  to  as 
“Earth"  with  such  haopenings  and  places  as  WW-I  and 
New  York  mentioned. 

It  detracted  from  the  story  since  it  is  almost  im- 
possible that  history  would  repeat  itself  detail  for  de- 
tail on  this  planet.  Or  was  the  narrator  using 
examples  from  Earth  while  telling  of  the  planet  that 
exploded?  Or  what?  Was  good  reading  just  the  same. 

THE  VISITOR  is  typical  Bradbury.  I am  now  in  the 
stage  where  acclaiming  his  stories  is  superfluous  so  I 
just  read  and  enjoy  each  one  that  comes  along  and 
I’m  satisfied. 

Now  comes  the  current  rave.  Jack  Vance  and  his 
Magnus  Ridolph,  detective  extraordinary.  I like  this 
new  series  and  it  is  by  far  the  best  series  since  “Kim 
Rendell”  and  before  that  too!  I only  hope  Jack  can 
keep  them  coming  as  good  as  they  are  as  they've  kept 
an  admirably  high  level  in  quality  so  far.  Glad  to  see 
one  is  slated  for  the  next  issue. 

The  logic  in  this  one  is  a pleasure  to  contemplate. 
Vance  thinks  up  all  manners  of  strange  creatures  and 
then  builds  up  an  indisputable  logic  around  them, 
weaves  it  into  a detective-story  which,  taken  all  to- 
gether, is  pretty  darned  good  writing  and  reading!  He 
can’t  lose!  Neither  can  we! 

Pics  were  all  good  this  time.  Finlay  and  Stevens 
really  good  and  Napoli  not  so  bad  when  he  has  a 
two-page  spread  to  work  in. 

Say.  I.  had  been  wondering  what  you  might  have 
cooked  up  for  us  for  a Tenth  Annish  of  SS.  No  special 
plans  huh?  But  it  will  probably  be  a top-flight  affair 
as  they  all  seem  to  be  nowadays.  Darned  good  work 
and  I hope  you  can  keen  it  up.  I’m  not  worrying  any! 

It  was  a long  letter-section  this  time  and,  as  usual, 
it  was  the  first  thing  I read!  I see  that  William  Thies- 
sen  has  also  thought  of  stf  anthologies  in  POPULAR 
LIBRARY.  It  was  Jimmy  Taurasi’s  idea  originally 
and  I spoke  of  it  in  my  letter  in  the  October  TWS.  I 
hope  everyone  will  support  this  idea,  as  there  are  still 
plenty  of  good  stories  left  from  them  thar  old  mags. 

Oh.  just  Don  and  I live  at  4 Spring  Street.  I mean, 
lust  the  two  of  us  are  brothers.  My  Mom  reads  every 
issue  but  won’t  write.  Well.  Sheldon  isn’t  a pen-name 
huh?  Hrnmm  ...  I got  it!  Which  one  is  your  pen- 
name?  You  write  lots  of  tennis  stories  for  the  sports 
maes  but  not  enough  stflction. 

Whv  the  anonymity?  Most  eastern-area  fans  know 
you  and  many  more,  so  why  the  secrecy?  Your  mask 
is  nrettv  well  in  tatters! 

Nice  long  fanzine  review.  I see  TRITON  did  make 
thp  A list.  Watch  for  #2  TRITON  and  #1  OPEN 
STFTPE  soon.  Hope  you  like  'em. 

Book  reviews  good  as  usual.  Haven’t  read  either 
hook  yet  but  will  take  your  word  for  it! — 4 Spring 
Street.  L ubec.  Maine. 


Glad  you  like  Magnus  Ridolph,  especially 
as  he  came  in  for  quite  a fan-pasting  until 
the  SUB-STANDARD  SARDINES.  We 
found  the  series  entertaining  all  the  way  or 
we  would  not  have  recommended  same  for 
purchase.  [ Turn  page] 

153 


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A series  can  be  an  editorial  as  well  as  a 
writer  and  reader  headache.  The  Orig  Prem- 
Benj.  Miller  series  we  have  been  running  in 
TWS  ©f  late  is  a prime  example.  Miller  sent 
in  the  first,  which  we  bought  and,  in  buy- 
ing, suggest  he  develop  into  a series.  So  he 
sent  in  the  next  three  in  a batch.  The  third 
and  fourth  stories  were  howlers  but  the  sec- 
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locked that  we  could  not  run  three  and  four 
without  running  two. 

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AYES  AND  NEIGHS 

by  C.  Ronald  Wagner 

Dear  Ed:  Five  things  have  I to  say: 

1.  Throw  out  the  Hail  of  Fame  (all  it  has  been  is 
a Hades  of  Fiction).  Fans  make  their  own  Halls  of 
Fame  anyway. 

2.  STARTLING  STORIES,  March  1948,  The  Ether 
Vibrates,  Wanda  Reid:  Why  condemn  Merritt  on  a 
single  reading?  Kuttner  has  written  junk,  too.  Try 
Merritt’s  SEVEN  FOOTPRINTS  TO  SATAN. 

3.  I made  a mistake,  Ed.  I had  a basement  full  of 
STF.  1 selected  just  the  brilliant  stories,  took  them 
from  the  magazines,  trimmed  the  edges,  set  them  in 
folders  and  placed  them  on  my  book  shelf.  Now  I 
have  the  best  28  stories  ever  printed  in  STF  (my 
opinion)  but,  frankly,  I am  haunted  by  some  of  the 
good  stories  I had  to  sacrifice.  However,  take  pride  in 
this,  Ed:  Only  two  stories  made  the  grade  in  1947  and 
both  were  from  STARTLING;  Kuttner’s  DARK 
WORLD  and  Hamilton's  THE  STAR  OF  LIFE. 

4.  Glad  Leigh  Brackett  is  coming  back  soon.  She 
has  no  story  in  my  files  but  I remember  one  I 
sacrificed— THE  VEIL  OF  ASTELLAR. 

5.  Glad  you  opposed  E.  J.  Frost’s  plea  for  turning 
your  magazines  into  reprints. — *35  North  Lombard 
Avenue,  Oak  Park.  Illinois. 


How  come  you  missed  Brackett’s  SHAD- 
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and  exciting  job  all  the  way.  Hope  you  like 
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HOW  DO  YOU  DO? 

by  Michael  Wigodsky 

Dear  Sir: 

STARTLING  is  new 
How  do  you  do? 

STARTLING  is  better 
This  is  my  Letter 

Best  of  the  stories,  naturally,  was  the  novel.  British- 
er Clarke  has  written  a suspenseful,  surprising,  satiri- 
cal, sincere  and  in  other  ways  magnificent  story. 

Secondly  surprising  is  the  quality  comeback  of  old 
Hackfull  FBLong.  His  Mother  Goose  tale  is  the  finest 
piece  of  fairy-tale  brutality  since  MIMSY  WERE  THE 
BOROGOVES. 

Thirdly  on  STARTLING  s November  hit  parade  is 
THE  VISITOR,  which,  needless  to  say,  would  be  first 
and  then  some  in  most  issues.  This  surpasses  even 
AND  THE  MOON  BE  STILL  AS  BRIGHT,  which  was 
based  on  a somewhat  similar  theme.  Why,  it’s  even 
better  than  THE  HOMECOMING.  In  fact,  it’s  better 

154 


than  any  of  Bradbury's  tales  you  can  mention  except 
perhaps  THE  SCYTHE.  If  any  of  you  who  read  this 
don't  agree  with  me,  get  out  the  story  and  reread  the 
penultimate  sentence.  (Incidentally  Bradbury  seems 
to  produce  almost  as  much  as  Kuttner.) 

Then  comes  Jack  Vance,  with  another  ingenious 
trifle  ‘a’  Ridolph.  His  titles  are  perfect  for  INTHE- 
NEXTISSUE  forecasting,  because  they  never  tell  any- 
thing about  the  plots. 

After  a long  leap  over  one  of  the  brooks  of  Looking- 
glassland,  we  come  to  vanVogt,  whose  DORMANT  Is 
a weak  rehash  of  a shortshortstory  called  DEFENSE 
he  wrote  for  one  of  your  competitors.  Fifth  place, 
and  he  doesn’t  deserve  it. 

In  sixth  place,  as  usual,  is  John  D.  MacDonald.  His 
story  drips  sentiment,  the  hero  is  so  much  of  a fool 
at  his  trial  that  I can't  believe  he  even  had  sense 
enough  to  put  his  hand  instead  of  his  head  through 
the  ‘gawk’,  and  the  last  paragraph  seems  to  infer  that 
everyone  has  a body  in  the  garden,  as  well  as  a uni- 
corn. 

In  seventh  place  is  THE  STUBBORN  PEOPLE.  This 
story  is  well  written  and  believably  characterized, 
but  it  irritated  me  for  some  reason.  Seventh  place. 

Last  and  certainly  least  is  the  halloffamer.  It  was 
readable,  but  despite  its  “epic  scope"  it  seemed  so 
trivial  that  I had  to  concentrate  to  remember  there 
was  such  a story  in  the  magazine. 

Since  my  last  letter  was  published,  I got  a letter 
from  David  Lesperance.  commenting  on  last  para- 
graph of  my  letter  as  scrambled  by  your  drunken  type- 
setter. He  says  he  was  talking  about  somebody  else. 
I’ll  answer  him  eventually  in  private  correspondence, 
but  this  to  apologize  in  public.  Thank  you. — 7744 
Ridgeland  Avenue,  Chicago  49,  Illinois. 

Michael,  Michael,  quite  contreery 
Your  spelling  rivals  that  of  Sneary. 

It  makes  us  look  at  you  askance 
But  we’ll  forgive  since  you  like  Vance. 


'%  'W 
WM';-' 


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ZOWIE! 

by  Aubrey  Carruth  Jr. 


I ADDRESS 

mmm  ‘ ’ * — — — — — — 


Dear  Editor:  Without  a doubt  this  is  one  of  the 
finest  issues  of  Startling  Stories  ever  published.  The 
Arthur  C.  Clark  novel  was  far  above  average. 

The  Hall  of  Fame  section  was  good  and  promises 
to  become  even  better.  Of  course  the  novel.  '‘Against 
the  Fall  of  Night”  by  Clarke,  was  the  best  story  In 
the  zine.  In  fact,  the  excellence  of  the  novels  in  recent 
Issues.  (“What  Mad  Universe"  bv  Fred  Brown  in 
Sept.  Clarke’s  effort  in  Nov.  and  "The  Time  Axis”  by 
Kuttner  in  Jan.)  have  been  the  reason  for  much  of 
the  fans'  new-found  jubilation. 

I for  one  am  glad  about  the  addition  of  A.  E.  van 
Vogt  as  one  of  your  writers.  With  a fellow  like  that 
writing  for  you.  you  are  bound  to  come  up  with  a 
great  story  now  and  then.  His  Dormant  in  this  issue 
was  no  classic  but  it  was  a good  short,  as  was  Brad- 
bury's “The  Visitor”.  As  usual  Magnus  Ridolph  wins 
out  but  it  always  proves  interesting  reading. 

Hoping  that  the  good  quality  of  S.S.  continues  I 
will  now  sign  off.  Be  seeing  you  next  ish. — 307  East 
S9th  Street,  New  York  28,  N.  Y. 

We’ll  be  looking  for  you,  Aubrey,  and  only 
hope  future  issues  strike  you  as  warmly  as 
have  those  you  cite.  And  now,  so  long,  all, 
until  next  month,  when  our  companion  mag- 
azine THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES  hits 
the  stands  with  what  we  hope  will  be  an- 
other fine  issue.  It  should  be,  since  it  has 
novelets  by  Hamilton,  Loomis  and  Bradbury. 
Until  then — adieu. 

—THE  EDITOR. 

READ  OUR  COMPANION  MAGAZINE 

THRILLING  WONDER  STORIES 


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FAN  PUBLICATIONS 


rW  VERY  once  in  a while  someone  sends 
j us  a magazine  that,  only  by  the  most 
M extreme  stretching  of  the  connotative 
belt,  has  anything  to  do  either  with  science 
fiction  or  science  fiction  fandom.  This  time 
the  publication  in  question  is  entitled  THE 
PSYCHIC  WORLD,  which  is  “Dedicated  to 
the  unveiling  of  the  mysteries  of  mind.” 

A professional  job,  published  by  Charles  W. 
Miller  at  Suite  #1102,  210  Fifth  Avenue,  New 
York  10,  New  York,  it  goes  in  heavily  for 
the  Hindu  and  other  fetishes  and  belongs  on 


that  crackpot  fringe  of  the  occult  which,  we 
firmly  believe,  caters  only  to  the  maladjust- 
ed and  unstable. 

Om  mani  padme  hum.  Ho  hum. 

Far  less  tangential  is  a FANEWS  PORT- 
FOLIO, a collection  of  select  fanzine  covers 
and  picture  pages  from  former  FANEWS  an- 
nuals. Put  out  by  Lorraine  Dunkelberger 
(Dunk  has  been  laid  low  with  a succession 
of  illnesses)  of  1443  Fourth  Avenue  South, 
Fargo,  North  Dakota,  it  contains  material  that 
is  bound  to  be  pleasantly  nostalgic  for  many 
veteran  fans  as  well  as  of  absorbing  interest 
to  newcomers  in  the  field.  An  all-around 
good  job. 

Another  arrival  worthy  of  special  note, 
although  it  too  has  little  relation  to  the  main 
fanzine  stream — although  it  calls  itself  a fan- 
zine— is  a tremendous  anthological  achieve- 
ment called  THE  FABULOUS  FAUST,  first 
in  a planned  series  of  such  publications  whose 
purpose  is  to  tell  us  just  about  everything 
there  is  to  know  about  the  late  Frederick 
Faust,  otherwise  Max  Brand,  better  known 
for  his  westerns  and  his  Dr.  Kildare  series 
156 


than  for  fantasy'  and  science  fiction,  although 
he  did  write  a number  of  works  along  the 
latter  lines. 

The  “fanzine”  contains  articles  and  statis- 
tical treatises  about  Brand  and  his  work,  ex- 
cerpts from  many  of  his  writings,  eulogies 
composed  after  his  death  and  a number  of 
his  old  book  jackets.  Priced  at  50c*  and  worth 
it,  THE  FABULOUS  FAUST  is  published  by 
Faustophile  Darrell  C.  Richardson  at  6 Silver 
Avenue,  South  Fort  Mitchell,  Covington, 
Kentucky.  We’re  looking  forward  to  the 
second  issue. 

And  so  to  the  A-listing,  which  looks  pleas- 
antly solid  this  time  out  and  contains  a num- 
ber of  fanzines  which  have  not  previously 
appeared  in  these  columns. 

CENSORED,  79  Hudson  Avenue,  Town  of  Mt 
Royal,  Montreal  16,  P.O.,  Canada.  Editor,  Fred 
Hurter,  Jr.  Published  irregularly.  150  per  copy. 

Canadian  capers  attractively  presented  with  T.  A. 
Bauer,  Gerry  Williams  and  Bert  Joss  handling  the 
fiction  (wanted,  one  clothespin)  and  articles  contrib- 
uted by  Sam  Trenchard,  Leonard  Ashley  and  Les 
Croutch.  Trenchard’s  piece  on  the  building  of  proteins 
struck  us  as  most  worth  while  of  the  list. 

CHRONOSCOPE,  2215  Benjamin  Street  North- 
east, Minneapolis  18,  Minnesota.  Editor,  Redd 
Boggs.  Published  quarterly.  150  per  copy,  2 
copies  250. 

A neophyte  we  hope  is  here  to  stay.  The  well- 
balanced  contents  page  lists  articles  by  Dr.  Keller, 
Brazier,  Kennedy,  Paul  Klingbiel,  Art  Rapp  and  Lilith 
Lorraine,  truly  a distinguished  list — book  reviews  by 
Spencer,  Tigrina  and  Wilson — and  poetry  by  Genevieve 
Stephens,  Lilith  Lorraine  and  la  Zimmer.  A distin- 
guished and  provocative  list  with  Keller's  "five-book" 
selection  for  desert-isle  reading,  Joe  Kennedy's  in- 
formative and  occasionally  hilarious  analysis  of  prozine 
covers  just  barely  coming  in  ahead  to  avoid  a dead 
heat  with  the  others.  We  sincerely  hope  Editor- 
Publisher  Boggs  can  keep  up  this  quality.  If  he  does 
he'll  have  a fanzine  all-timer. 

THE  FANSCIENT,  3435  NE  38th  Avenue,  Port- 
land 13,  Oregon.  Editor,  Donald  B.  Day.  Pub- 
lished quarterly.  150  per  copy,  500  per  year. 

Illuminated  by  Kuttner's  description  of  the  collapse 
of  FEARED  TALES  and  GEARED  TALES  in  1958  and 
a profile  on  Dr.  Keller,  the  first  anniversary  issue  of 
this  nicely  printed  but  microscopically-sized  fanzine  is 
also  top  hole.  Artwork  and  offset  printing  make  it 
legible  despite  its  smallness  and,  among  the  other 
contributions,  Thyril  Ladd’s  brief  essay  on  George 
Allan  England  and  Eric  Atlas'  book  reviews  are  es- 
pecially worthy  of  comment. 

FANTASY-TIMES,  101-02  Northern  Boulevard, 
Corona,  New  York.  Editor,  James  V.  Taurasi. 
Published  monthly.  150  per  copy,  2 copies  250. 

This  East  Coast  newszine  continues  to  develop  and 
improve  while  still  containing  plenty  of  fangossip- 
meat.  Tom  Gardner’s  prozine  reviews  of  the  year  1947 
are,  of  course,  especially  interesting  to  us.  A good 
job  ail  around. 

THE  GORGON,  4936  Grove  Street,  Denver  11, 
Colorado.  Editor,  Stanley  Mullen.  Published 
quarterly.  200  per  copy,  7 issues  $1.00. 


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Still  Just  about  tops  among  established  fanzines  with 
topflight  artwork  contributed  by  Roy  Hunt.  Archie 
Musicfc  and  John  Grossman.  Poetry,  Toth,  Pederson, 
Alvor  and  Stephens  is  above-average,  Cynthia  Carey’s 
“The  Paisley  Shawl”  is  a haunting  bit  of  fiction  and 
two  articles — Phil  Rasch’s  analysis  of  the  background 
of  Merritt’s  "Face  in  the  Abyss”  and  Paul  O’Connor's 
essay  on  Lafcadio  Hearn — could  fit  into  just  about 
anyone’s  publication. 

IF,  705  West  Kelso,  Inglewood,  California.  Editor, 
Conrad  Peterson.  Published  irregularly.  10  per 
copy,  6 copies  50(1. 

Another  promising  newcomer,  enlivened  by  a highly 
amusing  satiric  future  autobiography  by  Dr.  Keller  and 
a ditto  account  of  encountery  with  a Shaver  fan  and 
general  high  level  of  features.  More. 

OPEN  STFIRE  505  Washing  Avenue,  Apartment 
#7,  Portland,  Maine.  Editor,  R.  H.  Woodman. 
Published  irregularly.  No  price  listed. 

And  still  they  come.  This  one,  put  out  by  the  editor 
of  TRITON,  another  fanzine,  is  strictly  a letter-box 
and  as  such  fills  a long-felt  need  in  fanzine  opinion 
which  has  been  missing  since  the  demise  of  VOM. 
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OPERATION  FANTAST,  Riverside,  South  Brink, 
Wisbech,  Cambridgeshire,  England.  Editor,  Ken- 
neth F.  Slater.  Published  quarterly.  No  price 
listed. 

The  British  gang  is  out  in  force  this  time,  in  a big 
and  sloppily  printed  Job  that  should  be  of  interest  to 
all  American  fans.  Their  interests  run  a surprisingly 
close  parallel  to  those  of  American  fans.  Slater’s 
"Generally  Chuntering”  page  packs  plenty  of  stf 
gossip. 

PEON,  2116  Edsall  Court,  Alameda,  California. 
Editor,  Charles  Lee  Riddle,  PNi,  USN.  Published 
monthly.  5(1  per  copy,  25 per  year. 

Poetry  by  Dr.  Keller  and  others  and  a large  letter 
department  feature  this  well-put-out  ’zine.  However, 
its  most  intriguing  fanfeature  is  a graph  giving  state-by- 
state numbers  of  membership  in  the  National  Fantasy 
Fan.  A nice  Job. 

SHANGRI-LA,  628  South  Bixel  Street,  Los  An- 
geles 14,  California.  Editor,  Jean  Cox.  Published 


NEXT  ISSUE'S  HEADLINERS 

FLIGHT  INTO  YESTERDAY 

A Novel  of  Tomorrow 

By  CHARLES  L.  HARNESS 

CONQUEST  OF  LIFE 

A Hall  of  Fame  Novelet 

BY  EANDO  BINDER 

• 

THE  NEXT  TWELVE  YEARS 
Special  Feature  by  WILLY  LEY 


158 


bi-monthly.  10t  per  copy,  3 copies  25^. 

Editor  Cox  has  enlivened  this  recently  fading  flower 
of  the  Los  Angeles  Science  Fantasy  Society,  obtaining 
an  essay  by  A.  E.  van  Vogt  on  Dynamic  General  Major 
Semantics  as  well  as  an  interview  by  Ray  Bradbury 
and  a short  short  story  by  Major  Reynolds,  one-time 
SEPoster.  The  society  records  are  as  lively  as  ever 
and  SL  appears  to  have  taken  a welcome  new  lease  on 
life  after  its  recent  doldrums, 

SPACEWARP,  2120  Bay  Street,  Saginaw,  Mich- 
igan. Editor,  Arthur  H.  Rapp.  Published  monthly. 
15(i  per  copy,  2 copies  25 1. 

Bill  James.  Dick  Avery.  Jim  Harmon  and  Hal  Shapiro 
contribute  to  the  doings  in  this  reasonably  live  issue — 
but  Steve  Metchette’s  essay  on  "ghost  town"  or  for- 
gotten prozines  is  top  feature  this  issue.  Artwork  uni- 
formly dire. 

TRITON,  505  Washington  Avenue,  Apartment 
#7,  Portland,  Maine.  Editors,  Ed  Cox  & R.  H. 
Woodman.  Published  quarterly.  No  price  listed. 

Gray,  de  la  Ree,  Moleworth  and  Van  Couvering  con- 
tribute to  this  neatly  conceived  ’zine,  along  with  the 
ubiquitous  Dr.  Keller.  All  4-0  except  for  Jerri  Bullock's 
cover,  which  looks  like  a partly  carved  roast  beef — 
and  we  don’t  believe  that  was  what  Miss  Bullock  in- 
tended. Ray  Nelson's  cartoon  amusing. 

Well  the  A’s  have  had  it  and  come  out 
quite  gilded  in  the  process.  We  can’t  remem- 
ber a list  that  inspired  more  friendly  critical 
comment.  But  all  good  things  must  end — so 
on  to  the  B’s. 

BLOOMINGTON  NEWS  LETTER,  Box  No.  260.  Bloom- 
ington, Illinois.  Editor,  Bob  Tucker.  Published 
irregularly.  No  price  listed.  Le  Tucker  gets  his  hand 
in  again  in  modest  but  peppery  fashion  with  reviews, 
gossip  and  observations  of  some  Fortean  phenomena. 
Here's  hoping  he  finds  time  to  build  it  into  something. 

The  FANTOPOLOGIST,  Bethalto,  Illinois.  Editor,  H.  T. 
McAdams.  Published  irregularly.  10c  per  copy.  A bull- 

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jroor  LOOSE  plate  tight -fitting  before  duplication. 


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JOLIET,  ILLINOIS 


KOTAN,  Box  No.  138,  Lake  Arthur,  Louisiana.  Editor, 
Gordon  Mack  Jr.,  Published  irregularly.  No  price 
listed.  Dr.  Keller  puts  in  a poem  and  Lin  Carter  does 
likewise  about  A.  Merritt’s  “Creep  Shadow”.  Artwork 
is  fair,  fiction  insignificant. 

the  ROCKET  NEWS  LETTER,  91  Pine  Avenue,  River- 
side, Illinois.  Editor,  Wayne  Proell.  Published  monthly. 
15c  per  copy.  This  once  ambitious  sheet  is  picking  up 
again  after  a summer  slump.  Strictly  for  rocketeers. 

SPATIUM,  584  East  Monroe  Street,  Little  Falls,  New 
York.  Editor,  Harold  Cheney  Jr.,  Published  monthly. 
10c  per  copy.  12  copies  $1.00.  Membership  stuff  for  the 
Central  New  York  SF  Society  and  little  of  general  fan 
interest. 

the  STFANATIC,  no  address  listed.  Editor,  Hugh  Mc- 
Innis.  Published  irregularly.  No  price  listed.  Mostly 
fanfiction — that’s  all.  Enclosed  correction  sheet  more 
amusing  than  the  regular  contents. 

WEIRD  UNSOLVED  MYSTERIES,  General  Delivery, 
Camden,  New  Jersey.  Editor,  John  Chrisman.  Pub- 
lished quarterly.  25c  per  copy,  4 copies  $1.00.  Such 
Fortean  phenomena  as  flying  saucers  are  here  ex- 
haustively reviewed.  Okay  if  you  go  for  it. 

Which  winds  up  the  briefest  review  in  some 
issues  (thanks  to  the  absence  of  FAPA  and 
SAPSzine  mailings.  On  the  whole,  though, 
the  ’zines  were  of  unusually  high  quality. 
Let’s  hope  they  can  hold  to  it.  We’ll  be 
keeping  them  crossed. 

—THE  EDITOR. 


STATEMENT  OF  THE  OWNERSHIP,  MANAGEMENT, 
CIRCULATION,  ETC.,  REQUIRED  BY  THE  ACT  OF 
CONGRESS  OF  AUGUST  24,  1912,  AS  AMENDED  BY 
THE  ACTS  OF  MARCH  3,  1933,  AND  JULY  2,  1946,  of 
Startling  Stories,  published  bi-monthly  at  Chicago,  111., 
for  October  1,  1948.  State  of  New  York,  County  of  New 
York,  ss.  Before  me,  a Notary  Public  in  and  for  the  State 
and  county  aforesaid,  personally  appeared  H.  L.  Herbert, 
who,  having  been  duly  sworn  according  to  law,  deposes  and 
says  that  he  is  the  Business  Manager  of  Startling  Stories, 
and  that  the  following  is,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and 
belief,  a true  statement  of  the  ownership,  management,  etc., 
of  the  aforesaid  publication  for  the  date  shown  in  the  above 
caption,  required  by  the  act  of  August  24,  1912,  as  amended 
by  the  acts  of  March  3,  1933,  and  July  2,  1946  (section  537, 
Postal  Laws  and  Regulations),  printed  on  the  reverse  of 
this  form,  to  wit:  1.  That  the  names  and  addresses  of  the 
publisher,  editor,  managing  editor,  and  business  manager  are: 
Publisher,  Better  Publications,  Inc.,  10  E.  40th"'  St.,  New 
York,  N.  Y. ; Editor,  None;  Managing  Editor,  None;  Busi- 
ness Manager,  H.  L.  Herbert,  10  E.  40th  St.,  New  York,  N.Y., 
2.  That  the  owner  is:  Belter  Publications,  Inc.,  10  E.  40th 
St.,  New  York,  N.  Y. ; N.  L.  Pines,  10  E.  40th  St.,  New 
York,  N.  Y.  3.  That  the  known  bondholders,  mortgagees, 
and  other  security  holders  owning  or  holding  1 percent  or 
more  of  total  amount  of  bonds,_mortgages,  or  other  securities 
are:  None.  4.  That  the  two  paragraphs  next  above,  giving 
the  names  of  the  owners,  stockholders,  and  security  holders, 


if  any,  contain  not  only  the  list  of  stockholders  and  security 
holders  as  they  appear  upon  the  books  of  the  company  but 
also,  in  cases  where  the  stockholder  or  security  holder 
appears  upon  the  books  of  the  company  as  trustee  or  in  any 
other  fiduciary  relation,  the  name  of  the  person  or  corpora- 
tion for  whom  such  trustee  is  acting,  is  given;  also  that  the 
said  two  paragraphs  contain  statements  embracing  affiant’s 
full  knowledge  and  belief  as  to  the  circumstances  and  con- 
ditions under  which  stockholders  and  security  holders  who 
do  not  appear  upon  the  books  of  the  company  as  trustees, 
hold  stock  and  securities  in  a capacity  other  than  that  of  a 
bona  fide  owner;  and  this  affiant  has  no  reason  to  believe 
that  any  other  person,  association,  or  corporation  has  any 
interest  direct  or  indirect  in  the  said  stock,  bonds,  or  other 
securities  than  as  so  stated  by  him.  H.  L.  Herbert,  Business 
Manarrer.  Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this  1st  day 
of  October,  1948.  Eugene  Wechsler,  Notary  Public.  My 
commission  expires  March  30,  1950. 


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SKYLARK  THREE  by  Edward  E.  Smith,  Ph.D.,  Fantasy 

Press,  Reading,  Pennsylvania  ($3.00). 

Once  again  Richard  Seaton,  his  pal  Crane 
and  their  two  highly  hirsute  fraus  roam  the 
galaxy.  Originally  called  into  space  to  help 
their  friend  Dunark  solve  a couple  of  scien- 
tific problems,  they  again  run  afoul  of  villain 
Marc  Duquesne,  whose  behavior  is  as  rigor- 
ously evil  as  it  is  motiveless. 

However,  early  in  the  course  of  their  trav- 
els, our  side  runs  afoul  of  some  overgravitized 


and  extremely  pugnacious  citizens  bent  on 
conquest  who  go  by  the  name  of  Fenachrone 
and  whose  various  rays,  screens  et  cetera 
would  prove  vastly  superior  to  those  of  the 
Skylark  crowd  were  it  not  for  Dick  Seaton’s 
unfailing  ingenuity. 

At  that,  Dick  needs  plenty  of  help  to  re- 
move the  peril  of  the  Fenachrone  from  the 
spaceways.  He  gets  it  from  the  underwater 
porpoise  men  of  Dasor  and  from  a super- 
intelligent  tribe  called,  the  Normalin,  who 
make  just  about  anything  they  wish  by 
mental  control  of  the  atoms  around  them. 

Dr.  Smith’s  ingenuity  is  at  least  equal  to 
that  of  his  characters,  especially  Dick,  who 
solves  the  unsolvable  time  after  time  with 
almost  ridiculous  ease.  But,  as  in  all  the 
good  doctor’s  volumes,  the  sweep  of  space 
and  its  alien  inhabitants  is  always  very  much 
present. 

If  he  could  only  give  his  characters  the 
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ITum  page] 

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SLAVES  OF  SLEEP  by  L.  Ron  Hubbard,  Shasta  Publish- 
ers, Chicago,  Illinois  ($3.00). 

SLAVES  OF  SLEEP  is  fantasy  pure  and 
not  so  simple.  Jan  Palmer,  a worm  in  human 
form  if  ever  one  existed,  is  the  much-beset 
heir  to  a failing  shipping  corporation  in 
Seattlev  He  is  being  robbed  blind  and  lacks 
the  character  to  get  up  on  his  hind  legs  and 
protect  his  own  interests. 

Then  Jan  is  visited  by  a Professor  Frobush, 
who  discovers  that  one  of  his  seagoing  for- 
bears has  brought  back  a copper  jug  seal 
with  lead  bearing  the  mark  of  Sulayman. 
Jan  refuses  to  part  with  it  and,  the  following 
night,  discovers  the  professor  playing  house- 
break  and  unstopping  the  seal. 

Result— the  escaping  Ifrit,  Zongri,  king  of 
the  Barbossi  Isles,  carves  up  Frobush  with  a 
handy  kris,  condemns  Jan  to  eternal  wake- 
fulness and  vanishes,  leaving  the  bewildered 
young  shipowner  facing  a murder  rap  for 
slaying  the  professor. 

But  Jan  wakes  up  from  a snooze  in  jail  to 
find  himself  inhabiting  the  rugged  and  fear- 
less body  of  a man  called  Tiger  in  another 
world  aboard  a ship  commanded  by  Jinni  in 
a world  run  by  same.  A reckless  daredevil 
in  his  new  incarnation,  he  begins  to  learn 
that  caution  is  not  always  the  best  policy. 

To  tell  more  would  be  to  give  the  story 
away.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  is  a delightful 
romp  through  a fairyland  properly  beset  with 
hideous  peril,  coupled  with  returns  to  the 
prison  cell  from  which  it  soon  looks  as  if  Jan 
will  never  emerge  save  to  enter  a padded  cell 
in  a lunatic  asylum. 

Hannes  Bok’s  jacket  design  is  one  of  the 
gayest  we  have  seen  in  fantasy  publishing. 
And  rightfully  so — for  SLAVES  OF  SLEEP 
is  a very  gay  and  enchanting  book. 

—THE  EDITOR. 


Join  the 

MARC 

OF 

DIME 


JANUARY  14-31,  1949 


162